<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Silence Between by Snailsway</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24438904">The Silence Between</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snailsway/pseuds/Snailsway'>Snailsway</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Twosetviolin, Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff, Humor, M/M, Music, Romance, breddy - Freeform, twosetviolin - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:02:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>44,469</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24438904</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snailsway/pseuds/Snailsway</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Eddy, a world-renowned violin prodigy, takes a brief break from his dazzling career to teach at Juilliard.  Fate assigns him Brett Yang, a bratty freshman who’s infuriatingly awful at the violin and can’t be bothered to practice.  But who’s also kind of cute.  (Inspired by their video, When You Don’t Practice Enough, in which Brett was adorable. *_*)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddy Chen &amp; Brett Yang, Eddy Chen/Brett Yang</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>518</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>759</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">

        <li>
          Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: 
            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26595370">【授权翻译】The Silence Between</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/TDmomo/pseuds/TDmomo">TDmomo</a>
        </li>


    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eddy tapped his foot absently to the rhythm of the Mozart. It was a serviceable performance. The bowing could use some work, the accents were too pronounced, but the tone was nice. Nice, but not prodigious. The girl looked worried after she finished the last note, which fell flat with a bit of a crunch. An anticlimactic ending. Still, Eddy gave her a nod of approval to calm her down, dispensed some suggestions and assignments, and let her go.</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks, Professor Chen, see you next week,” she said, scurrying away with palpable relief.</p><p> </p><p>He wondered if he should be offended. It’s not as if he were ever mean, or even that strict compared to some of the old profs here. Besides, he’d never been nervous for his own lessons, which he’d always found enjoyable. Though perhaps that wasn’t fair. After all, his playing had always been more than just “nice.”</p><p> </p><p>He cracked open a window before calling in the next student. The air outside was still warm, but refreshingly crisp; New York had finally relinquished the last of its summer humidity and was tumbling headlong into orange leaves and pumpkin spice lattes. He remembered liking autumn in New York when he’d briefly experienced it ten years ago, when he was 12 and making his debut at Carnegie Hall.</p><p> </p><p>So he looked forward to his first real autumn in the city. But after? He drew a blank. Juilliard would let him stay for as long as he wanted, of course, but the excitement of teaching budding young musicians had worn off along with the novelty of the experience. They were all very good—some even great—and he’s learned a few things by teaching them. But those weren’t the things he’d wanted to learn. The sense of ennui that had plagued him for the last few years threatened to rear its head again. He would teach this semester and then he would have to find something else.</p><p> </p><p>A knock at the door drew him out of his reverie. “Come in,” he said, as he settled back in his armchair for another hour of good—maybe great—perfectly boring music.</p><p> </p><p>An Asian boy walked in, a short one with some variation of a bowl cut and who, in his t-shirt and jeans, looked generally too young to be in college. He gave Eddy a brief glance from behind round glasses and took his place behind the music stand. There was a careless slouch to his posture and his face remained impassively deadpan.</p><p> </p><p>Odd.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy consulted his student list. “Brett Yang?”</p><p> </p><p>The boy gave a short nod.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy eyed him up and down, but elicited no response, not even a hint of nerves. Unusual for a first year student. “Well, welcome,” Eddy said finally, before launching into his usual spiel—first lesson, chance for us to get to know each other, demonstrate your style, etc. “Have you prepared anything for me?”</p><p> </p><p>“Was I supposed to?” the boy asked with a perplexed tilt to his head.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy glanced at him in surprise. “Well, ordinarily, it’s—yes. But if you haven’t, that’s fine. Just play whatever you like.”</p><p>           </p><p>The boy pursed his lips and pondered.</p><p> </p><p>“Anything at all,” said Eddy. He had an uneasy feeling that the script was about to be derailed. “Isn’t there any piece you’re particularly good at?”</p><p> </p><p>“I guess . . . the last guy said my Bach wasn’t bad.   The Preludio in E Major. I could play that?”</p><p> </p><p>Bach? Eddy narrowed his eyes. Ballsy choice, but then again, the boy had been accepted to Juilliard. “Sure, play the Bach.”</p><p> </p><p>The boy nodded, allowed himself a small inhale, and pressed his bow down.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy flinched. “Stop.” The barrage of off-kilter notes came to an obedient halt. “Why don’t you play me an E major scale instead? Let’s start with that.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh. Uh. Okay.” The boy shrugged unapologetically and spewed forth a series of notes that only the most generous of souls would call a scale.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Stop</em>.” Eddy rubbed his temple. Where in the world did they find this . . . ? “Play me an open D.”</p><p> </p><p>The boy darted him a questioning look, but did as he was told. An unsteady D ricocheted off the walls and pierced Eddy’s soul. It was too much. He rose and stalked over to Brett Yang, who observed his approach with widening eyes. “Is this a <em>joke</em>, Mr. Yang?”</p><p> </p><p>“What do you mean?” asked the boy.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy found his look of genuine confusion infuriating. “What do <em>you</em> mean?” Eddy countered coldly. “<em>Bach</em>? You can’t even play a scale—not even a steady D string, in fact—and you try to play me <em>Bach</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>The boy shrank before Eddy’s towering figure, looking even tinier before. Eddy was satisfied to see that he finally lost the last of his stoicism; there was a fresh panic to his eyes and a nervous quiver to his lips. “Was it . . . really bad?” he asked.</p><p> </p><p>The answer was too obvious to merit a response. Instead, Eddy impulsively grabbed the boy’s left wrist and held his hand to the sunlight. “Look at these fingers,” he said with a small scoff. “I’ve never seen such smooth fingertips on a violinist. Did you take the summer off? Do you even play the violin?”</p><p> </p><p>The boy struggled to pull away, and when he found that he couldn’t, glared at Eddy with the face of a small, wounded animal. He said nothing. Eddy dropped his wrist. “Look,” he said, backing away and leveling a dispassionate look at the boy. “I don’t know how you were accepted and what you thought you could get away with, but this is a waste of time. I want you to think hard about why you’re here and come back when you have something we can work on.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy watched the boy’s slumped, retreating figure until it disappeared down the hall. He realized slowly that he'd somehow lost his cool, and that his actions amounted to verbal abuse and bordered on physical assault.  He could be reported.  But it was his first encounter at Juilliard with truly, unapologetically, abysmal playing; he found it deeply puzzling.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Brett paused as he turned the corner of the hall and stealthily peeked back. Through the open door of the practice room, he could see the young professor pacing with a hand on his chin, his face contorted in a frown.</p><p> </p><p>Brett looked down at his left wrist, pale skin now tinged with red. He could still feel the ghost of the professor’s grasp. No one had ever dared do that before. Or tell him to his face that his playing was shit. He watched the professor contemplatively for a few more moments, until the next student’s arrival spurred his departure.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tuesday morning found Eddy in a cold lecture hall filled with first years. The chilled air buzzed with that combination of excitement and nerves unique to new semesters, the kind that always put Eddy on edge.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy saw a few kids sitting up front study him with interest; they found him too young, no doubt. Or maybe they knew who he was and was curious about him, which was why the dean had roped him into teaching intro to music theory in the first place. <em>They might be interested if someone their own age was teaching</em>, the dean had suggested. <em>Besides, you’re famous and that’ll motivate them too.</em> Eddy had his doubts, but it was too late for that now. He cleared his throat softly and commenced class.</p><p> </p><p>It was about an hour into it that Eddy began to lose them. Except for the gunners in the first two rows, everyone was more or less spacing out or browsing their phones under the table. Eddy didn’t take it personally—there was only so much music theory a person could stand, especially when it was all review material that they’d all probably learned ages ago. If he weren’t lecturing, Eddy might have fallen asleep himself. Oh well.</p><p> </p><p>As he contemplated how to spiff things up, his eyes drifted towards the back of the room and landed on familiar face, round and bespectacled. The only difference was that this time, the deadpan expression had been replaced by one of peaceful rest, and the dark eyes were shut behind the round-rimed glasses.</p><p> </p><p>A sudden impulsiveness seized him.</p><p> </p><p>“Brett Yang!” he called. More than a few heads snapped up. The boy was less responsive—his eyes opened with a few slowly blinks and he surveyed the room with bleary confusion before his gaze settled on Eddy.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy shot him a cold smile. “Mr. Yang, I apologize for interrupting your nap, but I’d like you to demonstrate the chord progression we just discussed on the piano. Why don’t you come up front?”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh. Okay.”</p><p> </p><p>A tense silence swelled in the room as Brett made his way to the piano up front. This got their attention, at least, Eddy thought with satisfaction. Fall asleep in his class and this might just be you.</p><p> </p><p>On the other hand, Brett himself looked less concerned that Eddy would have liked. He leisurely took a seat on the bench, yawned and rubbed at his sleep-puffed eyes. “Sorry,” he said, turning his face to Eddy. “What chord did you want? I didn’t hear.”</p><p> </p><p>This elicited a few errant snickers. The marker in Eddy’s hand threatened to snap. “Start with the A minor.”</p><p>           </p><p>“Hmm. Kay.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett raised his hands and hesitated. For one crazy moment, Eddy found himself entranced by the slender fingers that hovered just above the ivory keys. In the pale morning sunlight, they almost looked translucent. Eddy thought he could see a hint of red still encircling Brett’s left wrist.</p><p> </p><p>The hands crashed down into discordant cacophony that shattered any fantasy Eddy may have had. There followed a shocked silence, then a round of stifled laughter.</p><p> </p><p>Brett flashed Eddy an innocent smile. “I actually don’t know how to play the piano.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy took a deep breath and counted to five. He smiled back. “Thank you, Mr. Yang. As I see it, you play the piano about as well as you play the violin.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett’s nose wrinkled briefly in displeasure; then, he shrugged off. “Anything else, Professor?”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“It was just <em>unbelievable</em>,” Eddy said as he strolled down the front steps of the school with Belle for an afternoon coffee. “I’ve never seen <em>such </em>incompetence.”</p><p> </p><p>Belle gave her brother an amused if slightly bewildered grin. “And <em>I’ve </em>never seen <em>you</em> so worked up.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not worked up,” Eddy said stiffly. “I’m just confused as to how he was ever admitted.”</p><p> </p><p>Belle paused abruptly on a step and pointed her finger towards the distance. “Hey, is that the kid you were talking about?”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy squinted in the direction she pointed and saw that it was indeed the boy he had on his mind. He was walking alongside Theodore Rogers, the president of Juilliard himself—a lanky, older man nearing 60 who dwarfed Brett in size. Eddy saw old Ted casually sling an arm over Brett’s shoulder to guide him to a nice Benz parked on Broadway. He then personally opened the door to the passenger seat for Brett and motioned for him to get in.</p><p> </p><p>As their car sped away, Belle turned to Eddy with an arched brow. “<em>Well then</em>, I guess we have our answer. I did hear that Ted was gay, but didn’t know his tastes ran so . . . young.” Observing the distaste in Eddy’s expression and the tightness in his posture, she added lightly, “But we shouldn’t judge. It’s America. Maybe they’re in love.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy unclenched his fingers and shrugged. “Sure. Maybe. It’s just unfair to the other students, is all.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Brett turned up the AC and leaned back into his seat with a yawn.</p><p> </p><p>“And how were your classes today?” asked Rogers in that diplomatic way of his. “Everything going well? Your mother’s been asking, you know.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett thought about this and was reminded of the look on Eddy Chen’s face when he smashed that chord down. A cheeky smile spread across his face. “Yeah. It wasn’t too bad.”</p><p> </p><p>“And what about your violin lesson yesterday? Edward Chen’s one of the hottest young performers right now. Was he helpful? Did you like him?”</p><p> </p><p>Like him? The expression was a bit strong, Brett thought as he watched the trees of Central Park flash by. “He’s . . . interesting, I guess.”</p><p> </p><p>Rogers glanced at him curiously, but lost the chance to ask questions when he got pulled into a long call with the trustees. Brett was content enough to stare quietly out the window for the rest of the ride.</p><p> </p><p>Rogers was still on the phone when they parted ways on the elevator. Brett gave him a quick wave and a quiet <em>bye</em> before riding up alone to the penthouse. The one upside to attending Juilliard, he supposed, was that he could carpool with a neighbor. Another upside was that said neighbor just happened to be Juilliard’s president.</p><p> </p><p>Brett yelled <em>I’m home</em>, to which he received no response. The house was quiet and cold. He remembered then that his mother was in Hong Kong for a shareholder meeting. Not that it mattered; she wouldn’t have been here even if she was in New York.</p><p> </p><p>Brett’s threw his stuff in his room, plopped onto the bed, turned on the TV and scrolled absently through his phone. Every so often, his eyes would flicker to his violin case in the corner, where he’d abandoned it after that disaster of a lesson.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Do you even play the violin? </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p><em>You play the piano about as well as the violin</em>.</p><p> </p><p>A frown flitted across Brett’s usually expressionless face. He rolled around restlessly in bed for a few more minutes before finally giving in. With a defeated groan, he picked himself up and hobbled over to his instrument.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>As always, thanks for reading. Appreciate all your comments :3</p><p>In other news, their new merch pictures are cracking me up and so not what I expected.  It reminds me of the days when Eddy used to wear highly questionable flowery shirts, which is why it's just insane to me that it's already sold out.  It's cute they take each other's pics tho! haha</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The remainder of Eddy’s week passed without incident. For the most part, anyway. Having learned his lesson, he trucked through his notes for Thursday’s lecture without interruption and without messing with anyone. Fortunately, his other students had also learned their lesson. Other than a few brave souls, most remained alert through the class for fear that they’d be the next Brett Yang.</p><p> </p><p>Brett remained alert too, Eddy observed with some surprise when he chanced to glance towards the back. Or tried to, anyway. The pair of expressionless, downward slanting eyes stared resolutely at the lectern, straining hard to keep open, at times squinting, at times blinking in rapid succession, before they ultimately lost their fight with gravity and drifted shut.</p><p> </p><p>In sleep, Brett’s dead-eyed look dissolved into a tranquil innocence. His head tilted forward so that his long fringe fell softly over his forehead, and the morning light peeking through the windows cast a pleasant glow about his face, drawing out the natural pink of his cheeks and creating an almost doll-like impression.</p><p> </p><p>The image of the Rogers slinging his arm around Brett flashed through Eddy’s mind, unbidden. Perhaps it was sights like these that had seduced—</p><p> </p><p>“Professor?”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy blinked. “I apologize,” he said coolly. “Lost my train of thought.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>When Monday afternoon rolled around, the timely knock on the door again gave Eddy a jolt of surprise.</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t think you’d come today.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why not?”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy wouldn’t have come, if he were Brett. He would’ve gone to Rogers straight away and demanded a new instructor. In fact, because he had banked on Brett doing that, he’d decided against going to the dean himself and begging for a new student. He regretted that now, as he watched Brett nonchalantly unpack his violin, rosin his bow, and take his familiar, slouching stance behind the stand. There was almost no difference between this lesson and the last one. It was as if their last two encounters had never taken place.</p><p> </p><p>“You said I should come back when I had something we could work on.”</p><p> </p><p>“And do you have something?” Eddy asked with faint skepticism.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, it’s only been a week, but I thought I’d play the Bach again.”</p><p> </p><p>Again? Had Bach done something so unforgiveable? Eddy’s brows twitched and he braced himself for another round of torment as Brett brought his bow down.</p><p> </p><p>One bar, two bars, three bars—the notes bounced off the strings to Bach’s light, familiar tune. It wasn’t great, but it was better. The bowing was all over the place, and the phrasing was a disaster, but at least Eddy could recognize the skeleton of the piece this time. He let Brett continue with his playing, watching with muted interest as Brett closed his eyes, lost in the music—as those slender fingers danced across the strings with surprising nimbleness, playing with a power disproportionate to their size.</p><p> </p><p>So he does know how to play, Eddy thought. But that created a new mystery. He knew how to play, but made rudimentary mistakes that any teacher would have corrected, mistakes that should have been trained out of him years ago.</p><p> </p><p><em>The last guy said my Bach was pretty good</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy wondered about this last guy. Certainly, it wasn’t as awful as before—to the untrained ear, it might even sound okay—but no respectable teacher would call it <em>good</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Brett finished a dramatic up bow. With the last shrill note still ringing in the air, he turned to Eddy and “What do you think?” There was an expectant glimmer to his eye that struck Eddy as rather amusing. He swallowed the <em>better</em> that had almost rolled of his tongue.</p><p> </p><p>“There were a few issues,” he replied impassively.</p><p> </p><p>“Issues?” Brett asked with a confused blink. “Like what?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, setting aside intonation, which is the most obvious—”</p><p> </p><p>“—I <em>was</em> in tune though!” Brett protested, though his voice lowered meekly at Eddy’s pointed brow raise. “—I think I was in tune, anyway, for most of it . . .”</p><p> </p><p>“You were not. For any of it. But setting that aside, your string crossings were unsteady, you consistently ran out of bow, you completely ignored the dynamic markings, your rhythm . . .”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy droned on dispassionately in that nature for some time, watching with an almost perverse satisfaction the way the excitement drained from Brett’s face and was replaced by an irritated pout.</p><p> </p><p>He was unprepared, however, when Brett placed his violin down and walked towards him, stopping mere inches from where he stood, and it was with a paralyzed confusion that he watched Brett reach over, pry open Eddy’s own hand, and press his fingertips against Eddy’s open palm.</p><p> </p><p>“Can you feel them?” asked Brett, peering up at Eddy with wide, reproachful eyes as his fingers grazed Eddy’s skin. “I practiced a lot.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy’s breath hitched.</p><p> </p><p>“I—”</p><p> </p><p>But Brett had already retracted his hand. He collapsed into Eddy’s vacant chair despondently. “I practiced a lot, but you’re right. I don’t really know what I’m doing. Like, I watched a recording of Hilary Hahn, but I’m not even close . . .”</p><p> </p><p>“Hilary Hahn?” Eddy blurted, incredulous. “Dude–”</p><p> </p><p>“—Dude?”</p><p> </p><p>“—Mr. Yang. What I meant to say was that you’re not <em>quite</em> on the same level as Hilary Hahn, so I question the efficacy of your methods.”</p><p> </p><p>With anyone else, Eddy would have stopped here, but the irreverent look on Brett’s face irritated him just enough to draw out the rest of his thoughts. “And to be completely frank, Mr. Yang, if that’s your best effort at Bach, I’m not sure why you’re here. Perhaps you’re unaware, but your skill level, though not that of a beginner, doesn’t match those of your peers. While I won’t say that you have no chances of becoming a professional musician, the chances seem rather slim to me, at this rate. It’s simply too late.”</p><p> </p><p>If his vitriol hurt Brett, it didn’t show. Instead, one corner of the boy’s lips quirked up defiantly, in apparent amusement. “I know. I’ve never thought of becoming one.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then my question stands,” Eddy said coldly. “Why are you here?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett shrugged. “I don’t know. Because I can be, I guess.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy’s frown deepened. He was about to say something barbed when Brett added, a bit wistfully, “And because I . . . well, you probably wouldn’t believe me, but I’ve always just liked the violin. I’ve given up on a lot of things—most things—but I can’t seem to . . . that is, I’d like to continue playing the violin. And I’d like get better at it, if I can, I guess. I don’t much care about anything else.”</p><p> </p><p>An equally spoiled and inadequate response, Eddy thought viciously. Just <em>like</em> it? Where does that get you in life? It doesn’t win you competitions certainly, it doesn’t sell out performances, it doesn’t earn your praise from your teachers and acclaim from the media. You could be the best, or you could be nothing. Brett was nothing. </p><p> </p><p>Brett peered up at Eddy through dark lashes; Eddy noticed an enticing black sliver by his left pupil. “Will you teach me?”</p><p> </p><p>No, why would he?  It was pointless.  He should be using this time to teach better students, students who, if not on par with him, at least had potential to be his competitors and who could motivate him to get out of his slump and reach greater heights.  He shouldn't waste his time on a dead weight who apparently just wanted to while away some time, because he could.</p><p> </p><p>And yet.</p><p> </p><p>How nice would it be, to disregard all of that, to care about nobody and nothing else, and to play the violin for no other reason than the fact that you <em>can</em>, and that you <em>like</em> it?  Maybe that had been true for Eddy once, too, a fairytale approach to violin that had disappeared when the world discovered him to be a prodigy.   </p><p> </p><p>He regarded Brett for a few moments through narrowed eyes. Well, it would be different, at least.</p><p> </p><p>“We’d have to start with scales and arpeggios,” Eddy said, careful to keep a neutral voice. “And no Bach, obviously. Maybe an easier Mozart sonata for the mid-semester recital, but we can discuss. And you’ll keep practicing, of course.”</p><p> </p><p>A small, triumphant smile spread slowly across Brett’s boyish face and the glimmer of excitement returned to his eyes. “Okay. Of course.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Brett made the rookie mistake of glancing at the clock twice in quick succession. Still 10:30, still an hour and a half left. He slumped forward in despair. As if sensing this, Eddy shot him a sharp glare from the front of the lecture hall. Brett groaned under his breath and reluctantly straightened himself back up.  </p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Music school was supposed to be easy—that’s how Rogers had pitched it to him. Just sit through a few classes, play the violin a bit, and presto, prestigious degree. It’s not like we’ll fail you, he added, the subtext being: we wouldn’t fail the son of one of our biggest donors.</p><p> </p><p>Put this way, why not? Brett had gone through a brief phase of rebellion in high school—alcohol, sex, the tiniest bit of drugs—but that had petered out with time. After the novelty wore off, rebellion grew to be mostly pointless and somewhat exhausting. By the end of high school, he’d returned to his natural state of apathy and was fully resigned to spending four, dull years at Yale, followed by spending the rest of his life at the bank, doing useless work very poorly. But at the last minute, during an impromptu dinner party, Rogers had offered Juilliard, which had seemed like a surprisingly good idea the more Brett thought about it. For one thing, he wouldn’t be stuck in New Haven, and for another, learning the violin promised to be more enjoyable than whatever he was supposed to study at Yale. And as for his mother, writing checks to one institution was no different from writing to another. So Juilliard it was.</p><p> </p><p>Rogers had evidently left out the part where you get publicly humiliated if you nod off in class. Brett was thick-skinned enough to play it cool in front of Eddy, but he’d rather not repeat that performance if he could help it.  </p><p> </p><p>Rogers had also omitted the part where you’re expected to practice <em>non-stop</em>. Practice for intro piano, practice for orchestra, and of course, practice for solo lessons. Sure, Brett didn’t practice half as hard as everyone else, but he couldn’t dispense with it entirely. Not with all his peers listening. (And they were almost uniformly very good.) Certainly not with Eddy Chen breathing down his neck.</p><p> </p><p>Speaking of, the way Eddy liked to pace around in his bland grey suit induced irrepressible drowsiness in Brett. Brett propped his chin up with his hands and tried to focus. Eddy was saying something about harmonics. The words made no sense and his pleasant monotone voice, with that mild Australian twang, was as good as a lullaby.</p><p> </p><p>Why such a bright young person had such a stick up his butt was perennially mysterious to Brett. Of course, he’d been the one who’d asked to be taught—no mercy, please—but Prof Chen didn’t have to make the lessons <em>so</em> grueling.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Your posture’s wrong.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Your contact point is all over the place. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p><em>Are you </em><span class="u">sight-reading</span> <em>right now</em>?</p><p>
  
</p><p><em>Intonation. Intonation. </em><span class="u">Intonation</span>!</p><p>
  
</p><p>At times likes these, Brett found himself nostalgic for his former teachers, the ones who would let him get away with everything, who’d stoked his ego with undeserved compliments and who feared upsetting him above all else. What chance did musical integrity have in the face of a fat paycheck? Brett knew he was shit, and he knew they knew, but it still felt nice to be told that he was great.</p><p> </p><p>Anyway, all this was to say that last <em>intonation! </em>got to him a bit.</p><p> </p><p><em>Having perfect pitch doesn’t make you great, </em>he’d muttered under his breath, to which Eddy had retorted in his cold and clipped way something along the lines of, <em>my</em> <em>perfect pitch has nothing to do with it, you’re just shit </em>(but using polite, big words that Brett had now forgotten).</p><p> </p><p>Brett should have let it drop then, but his rich boy temper wasn’t so easily suppressed, and the longer he stewed under Eddy’s iron reign, the more his mischievous side threatened to act up.</p><p> </p><p>Finally, as he packed up his instrument, he said with feigned nonchalance, <em>I watched the recording of your performance, you know</em>, <em>of the Sibelius concerto. The last concerto you performed before you came here.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>Eddy glanced at him with mild surprise. <em>Ah, you did. And?</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>It was . . . not bad. I mean, a little robotic—you didn’t seem that into it, tbh—and it wasn’t, like, Hilary Hahn level, and I can see why you needed a break. But definitely still better than anything I could do. Anyway, thanks, and see you next week! </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>He had high-tailed it out of there before Eddy could cut his balls off.</p><p> </p><p>Unfortunately, you couldn’t avoid a guy forever when he was teaching at your school.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy was glaring in his direction again. Probably because he’d yawned five times in a row. Brett shrank guiltily in his seat even as he fought the sudden urge to laugh. No regrets—the memory Eddy’s expression of speechless disbelief was just too good.</p><p> </p><p>It had become something of a game to Brett. He liked peeling back the layers of Eddy Chen’s cold, professional veneer; he suspected that underneath it all was a 22-year-old as tempestuous as the next.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>A girl accosted Brett in the hallway after class before he could make his escape.</p><p> </p><p>“Sophie Druml,” she said, with an outstretched hand. “I am in your intro theory class. I sit two rows in front of you. Do you want to eat lunch together?”</p><p> </p><p>She enunciated each word carefully, with a European accent that Brett couldn’t quite place, and shook Brett’s hand with surprising firmness. In fact, her whole being—from her neat ponytail to her simple outfit to her polite but strong gaze—seemed to radiate a quiet steadiness that Brett found hard to dislike. Anyway, she didn’t seem like the type to take no for an answer.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“What’s good here? I’ve never been.”</p><p> </p><p>“You have never eaten in the dining hall?” Sophie asked, surprised. “At least once, surely . . .”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t live on campus, so I usually head home after. Anyway, New York has better options than this.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, lucky,” Sophie said wistfully. “I wanted to live off campus too, but thought I should try the dorms first year to be safe. I do not know the city well enough. You are from here?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yup.”</p><p> </p><p>They sat down with their lackluster pizzas and commenced a harmless exchange about the differences between Vienna and New York, which somehow lacked the awkwardness that usually pervaded first conversations. Part of the reason for that, of course, was that Brett had been trained in the art of small talk since he was small child. But Sophie’s unpretentious earnestness helped.</p><p>Brett was laughing at something she said when he suddenly saw Eddy from the corner of the eye. Instinctively, he turned his face and ducked, as if that would help him escape notice.</p><p> </p><p>“What are you doing?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Shh</em>,” he cautioned, though Eddy was half a room away. “Is he gone?”</p><p> </p><p>“Who?” asked Sophie, looking around, bewildered. “Ah, perhaps you mean Professor Chen? Yes, he is walking away. But why are you hiding? He is your violin instructor, no?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett sighed and admitted that that was part of the issue, that he may have insulted Eddy’s playing <em>just a tiny bit</em> during and Eddy may be out for blood.</p><p> </p><p>“You insulted his playing?” Sophie asked, wide-eyed. “That seems. . . . unwise,” An understatement, by any standard. “You know, that is strange that you would do that. Everyone is trying so hard to suck up and find a mentor that can help them, how do you say, open doors? And I hear Professor Chen is especially sought-after, because he is so gentle with his critiques, you know, not like the old guard here. He never yells, is what Sumina told me. She likes him very much. He’s very soft, she says.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett raised a brow—soft was not <em>quite</em> the term he’d use to describe Eddy—but Sophie preempted him off with a small laugh. “But I guess I’m not <em>that </em>surprised, that he is not nice to <em>you</em>. I do still remember that stunt you pulled first class. If eyes could kill, you’d be dead already. Anyway, that is why I wanted to meet you. I thought perhaps we could be friends.”</p><p> </p><p>“Because I have a special knack for getting on Prof Chen’s nerves?” Brett asked with a chuckle.</p><p> </p><p>“Because you do not care to suck up,” Sophie replied in her quiet, matter-of-fact way. “You’re not trying to get ahead. And that’s rare here.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett tilted his head thoughtfully. That was a new one, though, upon reflection, that seemed like a good a reason as any for wanting to befriend someone. Better than the reasons most people had for wanting to befriend him. He returned Sophie’s light-hearted smile.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>From across the dining hall, Eddy watched Brett hide his face through narrowed eyes. <em>That little shit. </em>But he recovered his composure enough to shake his head no, when the dean of the strings department asked him if something was wrong.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, Brett Yang,” remarked the dean, following Eddy’s gaze. “He’s your student, yes? I’d take care to be nice to that one. He’s special, if you catch my drift.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy frowned and responded with a curt, “Indeed.”</p><p> </p><p>“Anyway, you’re coming to the all-strings workshop this afternoon, yes?”</p><p> </p><p>“Actually, I—”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s the first all-strings workshop of the year and our honors students are showing some of their tricks. The first years are all coming too, so I thought it’d be nice to have some professors perform a little something-something too, as a welcome, you know. Obviously, you don’t <em>have to</em>, but it would be nice.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>All</em> the first years are coming?” Eddy queried, suddenly interested.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, it’s mandatory. Again, I wouldn’t dream of forcing you, but—”</p><p> </p><p>“Perhaps I <em>will</em> play something,” said Eddy, thoughtfully.</p><p> </p><p>Robotic? Not as good as Hilary Hahn? He’ll have to show him a thing or two.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>When will Eddy find out the truth about Brett?  Dundundun.</p><p>(What is going on with Brett's hair and can Eddy pls take him to the salon lol)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Brett filled with dread as soon as the first guy began playing. He had tried to explain to Sophie that “mandatory,” in American universities, just meant “strongly encouraged,” but there was no talking her around. We must go, she declared, and that was that. The fact Brett would have preferred to spend the afternoon on his couch was of no consequence .</p><p> </p><p>They were onto the fourth now, a cellist who was actually very good, which didn’t help matters. The soothing notes of <em>Le Cygne</em> vibrating off his strings enveloped Brett like a soft, down blanket and invited him to close his eyes. Not that he needed much prompting.</p><p> </p><p>The next thing he knew, Sophie was shaking him awake with great disappointment, and beside her, Sumina was giggling uncontrollably. Fortunately, the rest of the audience was too busy clapping to notice.</p><p> </p><p>“That was very rude,” Sophie whispered. “You missed a performance by one of the best cellists in our program.”</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t miss it,” Brett protested feebly. “I was just . . . feeling the music.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett gazed to the front of the room, where the cellist was giving a bow. Their eyes met unexpectedly as the cellist rose, and he gave Brett a serene smile. Brett looked away furtively, in guilt.</p><p> </p><p>Another few students had their turn, followed by a few professors, and by the forty-minute mark, all the pieces were beginning to blend together and the whole thing was truly insufferable. Brett had just about made up his mind to sneak out—Sophie be damned—and had half-risen from his seat when, suddenly, the room went quiet. Brett froze self-consciously and glanced to the front to see what was the matter.</p><p> </p><p>It was Eddy Chen, strolling to center stage with long, elegant strides, seemingly unbothered by the intense anticipation that quivered in the air. He surveyed the room with an unruffled confidence, his gaze resting just briefly on Brett. Then, he took a small bow and plunged into Paganini.</p><p> </p><p>It was as simple as that. His bow bounced with charming ease and in perfect synch with his left hand, which danced along the strings with swift precision. He made it seem like child’s play, as if nothing could be more effortless than playing the double stops and the high notes and the rapid successions all in tune and with perfect clarity.</p><p> </p><p>Brett settled back down, almost against his will, and watched unblinkingly, entranced. It wasn’t so much the technical virtuosity that fascinated him as it was the way in which Eddy, in this small auditorium and encased in his bland grey suit and without exaggerated expression, managed to breathe a whimsical liveliness into his caprices that a lesser violinist would have lost in the face of technical difficulties. The phrases were showy, and playful, without losing a certain sincerity. One imagined that this was, perhaps, what Paganini had intended.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy finished with a small flourish of the bow and a rare, light smirk. A challenge to the audience, perhaps, which broke into raucous applause.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you hear that?” exclaimed Sophie. “That was <em>amazing</em>!”</p><p> </p><p>“I <em>know</em>,” Sumina echoed, with stars in her eyes. “ And it’s been so long since he’s performed anything publicly. Gah, Brett, we’re so lucky to have him as our teacher!”</p><p> </p><p>Brett blinked a few times and let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Then, noticing that Eddy was again looking his way, he rolled his eyes and scoffed lightly beneath his breath. “Show-off,” he muttered.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>It was raining by the time they finished and the wait for an Uber was interminably long. Brett waved Sophie and Sumina off and leaned languidly against the pillar at the front of the building.</p><p> </p><p>He had never understood why people romanticized rainy evenings in Manhattan. The city streets, already dirty and loud at the best of times, transformed into streams of grime that echoed with the cacophonous cries of angry drivers and angrier pedestrians. The dirty water always seeped through Brett’s shoes and blurred his glasses. He wished he were home.</p><p> </p><p>He was pondering his options after another car canceled on him when Eddy exited the building and ambled to his side.</p><p> </p><p>“Still here?”</p><p> </p><p>“No cars,” Brett replied with a short shrug.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy nodded but remained stationary. Brett, having some idea of what Eddy was waiting for, felt a creeping sense of embarrassment. He cleared his throat and said, somewhat sheepishly, “So, uh, enjoyed your performance today.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah. Not too robotic for you this time?” Eddy asked mildly.</p><p> </p><p>Brett responded with an awkward chuckle that trailed off into silence. Eddy stood his ground and glanced at Brett through the corner of his eye, his lips again curling into that small smirk.</p><p> </p><p>Brett, wilting a bit, finally conceded, “No, not too robotic. It was . . . actually, pretty good.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy’s smirk grew more pronounced. The word <em>petty</em> sprung to Brett’s mind, but he didn’t voice it. Perhaps he’d deserved that.</p><p> </p><p>“And you’ll be prepared for Monday’s lesson?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett wrinkled his nose in annoyance and mumbled, “Yep, of course,” to which Eddy nodded again. The young professor popped open his large umbrella and walked into the rain with a cool, <em>see you next week. </em></p><p> </p><p>So fucking petty.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Eddy smiled to himself as he strolled away. It wasn’t so much Brett’s reluctant admission that pleased him, as it was the expression of wonder that lit his small, round face during the actual performance, and the unconscious smile that broke through the deadpan. Eddy felt, then, that his performance had been a success. It was a silly way to think about it, of course, a victory hardly worth gloating over—nothing at all over all the competitions he’d won—but still, there it was.</p><p> </p><p>He made a fatal mistake though. Like Lot’s wife, he couldn’t resist one curious glance back.</p><p> </p><p>Brett was still standing under the steel awning, staring at his phone with patent despair. Eddy watched him draw the sleeves of his baggy pink hoodie over his small hands. It was only late September, but the temperature had dropped perceptibly from the storm, and behind the curtain of rain, Brett looked impossibly tiny and helpless.  </p><p> </p><p>Eddy hesitated. There were a million reasons to keep walking and to leave the brat alone. He’d find his way home. And yet. With an inaudible sigh, he turned himself around and retraced his steps.</p><p> </p><p>Brett peeked up at him with obvious confusion.</p><p> </p><p>“Professor Chen?”</p><p> </p><p>“Do you want a ride?”</p><p> </p><p>“Like . . . actually?”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy frowned. “Well, if you’d rather wait, I understand—”</p><p> </p><p>“—No, no. A ride would be nice.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Their walk to the parking lot was accompanied by a truce-like silence. Don’t say anything that’ll come back to bite, Brett chanted to himself. He huddled quietly beneath Eddy’s umbrella and snuck glances at his taller companion every now and again, but Eddy had donned his usual, inscrutable mask and Brett knew there was no getting through to him now. Brett sighed internally—it was truly miraculous, he thought, how this cold, dull man could the same as the one who’d performed the Paganini earlier.</p><p> </p><p>In the florescent parking garage, Eddy closed the umbrella and led Brett to his car. It was only then that Brett realized that the rain had splashed all over Eddy’s left sleeve, even though Brett himself had remained more or less dry. He parted his lips to say something, but the words caught in his throat. He began to feel rather bad about the whole thing. After all, not every teacher—much less a famous solo violinist—would shield their student from the rain, or take time out of their busy evenings to drive one home.</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks,” he finally murmured, staring at the ground. Eddy, who looked briefly surprised, replied with a curt <em>you’re welcome</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy was quick to turn on the heater after they got in the car, for which Brett was also grateful. By the time they made out of garage, the color had returned to Brett’s wan cheeks and his fingers were warm enough to peek out from his sleeves.</p><p> </p><p>“You can turn on the radio, if you want,” Eddy offered stiffly, after he’d mapped Brett’s address. “I don’t know what kids like to listen to these days.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett almost quipped that Eddy wasn’t much older, but repressed it. He settled for a lazy, “Classical’s fine.” Already, he began to feel lethargic from the warm air and the slow rocking of the car. He curled into his seat with a small yawn and let Eddy program the radio.</p><p> </p><p>The haunting, melancholic melody of Ravel’s piano trio drifted through the air as they crawled alongside the cross-town traffic, cutting through the kaleidoscopic Manhattan lights refracted by the rain.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Eddy studied Brett’s sleeping face for a few moments under the opalescent streetlight. Brett was nestled peacefully between the seat and the door. With his glasses slightly askew, Eddy could almost count the dark lashes that fanned across his pale cheeks. It puzzled Eddy that anyone could sleep in such an unguarded manner in a stranger’s car, and he suspected—not for the first time—that Brett had lived a rather sheltered life without any real setbacks or misfortunes. Though maybe, he thought absently as he observed Brett, it wasn’t <em>such</em> a bad thing.</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps sensing that the car had stopped, Brett’s eyes fluttered open. “We’re here?” he asked, voice groggy.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy averted his gaze and nodded.</p><p> </p><p>The rain had abated to a light drizzle at this point, and Brett was able to dash into his building without an umbrella. Eddy watched him wave from the doorway and disappear into the lobby of the fancy condominium.</p><p> </p><p>He remembered this place. Rogers had invited the new faculty for dinner here at the beginning of last semester, and Eddy remembered thinking that it was exactly the sort of ritzy but tasteful sort of home you’d expect of Juilliard’s president.</p><p> </p><p>So Brett lived here too.  </p><p> </p><p>A inexplicable wave of irritation crashed over Eddy as he started his car again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This is becoming very long lol.  ANYWAY, who else is dying of curiosity over what got bleeped out when Eddy saw Brett's girl photo?  1000% me.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By mid-October, Eddy had begun wishing that he could clone himself. Between the exam-writing and paper-grading and the recital preparations, he could barely find the time to breathe. Which was why he found particularly aggravating Brett’s insistence on making only tiny increments of improvement every lesson. His progress would strain the patience of a saint, and Eddy was no saint.</p><p> </p><p>“Your recital’s a month away and you can barely get through the first page,” he commented with frost in his voice. “Have you been practicing at all?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett seemed startled by this; he responded with a quick, <em>yes, a lot</em>. But there was a stutter to his words and a shiftiness in his gaze that undermined him. Eddy raised his brows.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>A lot? </em>How much?”</p><p> </p><p>“Like four hours—okay, no, like forty-five minute every d—every other day . . .”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy said <em>fuck </em>quietly under his breath. He could already envision his colleagues’ amusement when they hear Brett play, very poorly, the easiest repertoire ever performed by a Juilliard freshman. And then they would turn their eyes on him and think, what a failure of a teacher, too young after all.</p><p> </p><p>The thought agitated him more than he cared to admit. After all, those who failed rarely always found failure particularly daunting. He began to lecture Brett on the importance of practicing, how behind he was, everything he needed to work on, his voice growing steadily louder as he spoke. <em>At this rate, 40 hours wouldn’t even be enough—</em></p><p> </p><p>But then he noticed Brett peering at him nervously, the dark, eyes darting up and down like tadpoles. A small patch of pink had formed at the base of his neck and peeked through his white button-up, which Eddy had learned to be a sign that he was anxious. He wore the expression of a child who’d realized that he’d done something wrong, repentant but defensive.</p><p> </p><p>It reminded Eddy, somehow, of that hazy, rainy evening they shared in the car, when Brett had recklessly revealed his vulnerable, sleeping face without reserve. Brett Yang, he thought to himself, was someone who hadn’t had to grow up to too fast, who, in a precious sort of way, could still show what he felt on his face, without restraint or embarrassment.</p><p> </p><p>And like that, Eddy found that he couldn’t sustain his anger any longer, and the hot air drained out of him like a deflating balloon.</p><p> </p><p>“I just want you to sound the best you can,” Eddy finished, his tone softening almost subconsciously, against his will.</p><p> </p><p>Brett’s lips formed into a small pout, but Eddy could see that it was mostly for show, that the telling pink splotch had begun to fade. “Fine,” Brett said, dragging the word out to show his reluctance. “I’ll be good.”</p><p> </p><p>Doubtful, Eddy thought, noting the mischievous spark in those eyes. But he let it go. Actually, he had begun to let a lot of things go, when it came to this little slacker. And he knew Brett felt it too, that subtle shift in their dynamics, the gradual ceding of authority. It had become increasingly hard to maintain discipline, for reasons that Eddy vaguely understood but didn’t quite feel like acknowledging.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>On a chilly Friday afternoon, after he’d entered the last of the grades, Eddy found a quiet moment to himself. He sat cross-legged on the patch of lawn that overlooked Lincoln Center, twirling a pen absently as he stared at the ream of sheet music in his hand. The sun was just beginning to set, campus was quiet, and the evening opera crowd had gathered by the fancy fountain up front in their glitzy ensembles, snapping selfies in good cheer. They were performing Mozart tonight, Eddy knew, a prodigy more prodigious than he could ever dream of being. He had half of mind to slip in and watch, and only his ingrained discipline kept him on the lawn.</p><p> </p><p>“What are you doing?”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy’s started at the familiar voice. In the blink of an eye Brett’s small figure was crouching down by his side, head tilted in curiosity. “Are you writing music?” Brett asked, staring at Eddy’s scribbles on the sheets.  </p><p> </p><p>It was too late to hide the papers, Eddy realized with an inward sigh. Besides, what was there to hide? “Yes, trying my hand at composing,” he responded.</p><p> </p><p>“But why?”</p><p> </p><p>“Why not? It’s something to do.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett poked his head closer to Eddy to get a better look at the hand-written notes. The light, clean scent of shampoo and fresh laundry flooded Eddy’s senses as the hair from the crown of Brett’s head tickled his nose. Eddy leaned back to give Brett—and himself—some space, but Brett, oblivious, took the opportunity to press closer. Eddy thought in a meandering sort of way that it would be easy swing an arm around the smaller boy and draw him in. He might not even notice . . .</p><p> </p><p>Brett began humming the notes he read. He hummed with a deeper voice than when he spoke, and it sounded surprisingly nice. Eddy listened without comment until Brett reached the end of the phrase.</p><p> </p><p>“It sounds weird,” Brett remarked, turning his head to give Eddy a judgmental stare. His face was so close that Eddy could again see the black fleck in his eye, smell the mint on his breath.</p><p> </p><p>“Nah, that’s not what it sounds like. You’re wildly out of tune,” Eddy deadpanned with a shake of his head. He prodded Brett away gently and tucked the pages, face down, to his side.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know,” said Brett dubiously. He moved a few centimeters away and sat down. “Maybe you should stick to violin playing. Your violin playing can be good. Sometimes. Definitely better than this composing business.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy rolled his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“What are you doing here, anyway?”</p><p> </p><p>“Waiting. And people-watching, I guess,” Brett mused, reflectively. “Don’t you think that, when people come to the Lincoln Center for the evening, all dressed up, they look so happy? Like they’ve left the worst parts of Manhattan behind, for a better time and place. That’s how I’ve always felt, anyway. It’s why I started learning music, come to think of it.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy raised a brow, but said nothing. They sat in amiable silence for a few minutes, until the last of the crowd disappeared through the large glass doors to gather beneath the chandeliers, and all that remained by the fountain were a few tourists. The dusk painted the sky a melancholy blue-purple; Brett huddled deeper into his long scarf, so that only his eyes peeked out from behind the thick knitting. Eddy fiddled with his pages of sheet-music, but felt no urge to pick them up. He studied Brett from the corner of his eye.</p><p> </p><p>When the skies had darkened completely, Brett stood and stretched out his limbs. “My ride’s here,” he said, pointing to the distance, where Eddy could just make out the tall, lanky figure of Ted Rogers under the street lamp, giving them a cheery wave.</p><p> </p><p>As Brett began walking away Eddy impulsively grabbed the delicate, cold fingers that dangled from the sleeve of a grey, Burberry hoodie. He held onto Brett’s hand for a lingering moment, marveling at how small it felt in his own.</p><p> </p><p>Brett peered up at him, wide-eyed. “P-professor?”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy released the hand. With a casual smile, he tucked Brett’s scarf a little bit tighter around his neck. “Stay warm. See you next week. Remember to practice.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett nodded slowly before turning away and ambling towards the car with a nonchalant slouch. Still, there was the small hesitance in his step, the bewilderment in his expression, that caused Eddy to smile.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy couldn’t say why he’d done that. Perhaps it was pure instinct. There was, after all, a selfish, competitive streak to Eddy that came part and parcel with being a prodigy. He liked winning what he wanted.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Brett’s pinky gave out halfway through the passage and the light melody of Mozart skid to an abrupt halt. Brett cursed softly, but resigned himself to a short break. He walked over to the window with his violin tucked under his arm and watched the outside world with a moody stare.</p><p> </p><p>The stare was at odds with the good weather—a sunny, fall day. Below, a stream of pedestrians paraded down the tree-lined path of Fifth Avenue, searching for openings to Central Park to enjoy the gold and red foliage. Brett himself had meant to go to the park that afternoon for a boozy picnic with old high school friends, followed by a long night of karaoke. But just as he prepared to leave the house, the image of Eddy Chen’s disappointed face popped into his brain and stopped him in his tracks. He could still hear Eddy’s voice, growing steadily colder, as he interrogated him on whether and how long he’d practiced. With that voice ringing in his ears, it would have been impossible to enjoy any picnic.</p><p> </p><p><em>You’re so lame now</em>, the high school friend had lamented over text with great disdain.</p><p> </p><p>True, Brett thought with a sigh. Undeniably true. Somehow, despite the fact that he had nothing to gain from this, his easy, aimless life had reshaped itself into one of discipline and exhausting practice.</p><p> </p><p>A gust of cold wind whisked up a flurry of gilded leaves against the powder blue sky. Brett frowned. He was reminded of the chilly breeze from the previous night, the one that ruffled his hair just as Eddy grabbed his hand and adjusted his scarf. He thought of the indecipherable smile Eddy wore, the odd gentleness to his touch. Stay warm, he had said, in that soft, low voice as he looked down at Brett through half-lidded eyes.</p><p> </p><p>Brett’s heartbeat quickened. What was that all about? He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head furiously, as if that might dispel the unwelcome, unnecessary, intrusive thoughts. Stop that, he commanded his brain, he’s another dude. <em>And</em> your professor.</p><p> </p><p>Mozart. He raised his violin again and dove back into the music, seeking refuge in the lyricism of the light sonata. This time though, there was a new zest to his melody, a tentative flutter to the notes that mirrored the frenetic rhythm of his heart.</p><p> </p><p>When he finished the last note, he noticed for the first time that he wasn’t alone. His mother was leaning against the doorway to the living room, dressed in an elegant long dress and wearing a gleaming string of pearls.</p><p> </p><p>Brett glanced at her in surprise. “Didn’t know you were home. Sorry, did I disturb you? You should’ve stopped me.”</p><p> </p><p>His mother shook her head and smiled. “Not at all, I was just enjoying the music. I haven’t heard you play in a long time. You’ve improved a lot.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett returned the smile and rubbed his nose bashfully. “I’m still working on it . . .”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s very good. I like it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks,” he mumbled with a small blush.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m glad it worked out,” she continued, her gaze soft. “I was worried, you know, about you going to Juilliard. It’s a music school, at the end of the day, and it wouldn’t necessarily open doors for you if you decide to go down a different path. But I . . . I think it was the right decision. Wouldn’t you say?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett shrugged and said sure, maybe. But he noted the joy in his mother’s aging face, along with the small touch of pride. It was an expression he hadn’t seen in a long time—he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done anything to make his mother proud. He thought obliquely that it was an expression he wouldn’t mind seeing more often.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>At around 8, Sophie texted him that they’d all gathered at a local bar near campus to celebrate Jordon’s birthday and that he should come for a drink. Having endured a long, lonely afternoon of practice, Brett thought it wasn’t a bad idea and made his way there, only to realize, halfway through his first drink, that it was a gay bar.</p><p> </p><p>He eyed the male couple making out on the dance floor with mild surprise, which Sophie must have seen because she laughed and asked if he was okay. “It’s the only place around here that doesn’t check ID,” she explained. “And, besides, they have good drinks.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett said it was fine, he just hadn’t known. Anyway, being lifelong Manhattan-dweller, he had already begun to adjust to surroundings. It was a nice bar, cozy and low key, with music that wasn’t too offensive. He saw a number of faces he recognized from campus, which, combined with the fact that he was surrounded by the few close friends he’d made, inspired in him a strange, fuzzy feeling of warmth. A feeling of belonging, almost, that he hadn’t been expecting.</p><p> </p><p>Two hours or so in, their small, tipsy group had mostly dispersed to dance or to mingle with others. Brett wandered over to the bar to order himself another drink and was just sitting down on a barstool when he was joined by an older-looking man he’d never seen before.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, haven’t seen you before,” said the man, sliding into the next seat and pressing close to Brett as he spoke. There was a drunken slur to his words that put Brett on edge. “First time? You’re cute. How old are you?” Brett wrinkled his nose in displeasure at the intense smell of alcohol on the man’s breath and leaned back. The man didn’t seem to notice, or care. He donned a leering grin and filled the silence with increasingly distasteful come-ons.</p><p> </p><p>“Uh, I think you’ve had a bit too much,” Brett said with a frown. He got to his feet in an attempt to extricate himself. “I’m actually gonna go—”</p><p> </p><p>“Go? Go where?” The man extended a thick arm around Brett’s small frame, trapping him in place. Brett’s frown deepened and he tried to push the man away, to no avail. The overpowering rank smell of alcohol threatened to suffocate Brett, and he was seized by a sudden panic, his heart hammering in his chest as he tried to formulate some sort of plan.</p><p> </p><p>Then suddenly, a hand grabbed the man’s arm and pulled it away.</p><p> </p><p>“Sir, I don’t think my friend appreciates this. I’d ask you to stop.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett let out a breath of relief. He was surprised, though, to look up and see the Asian boy who’d pried away his aggressor. With his gentle features, the boy didn’t have the aura of someone physically strong. There was, however, an undeniable strength to his arms. Brett thought he looked familiar, but couldn’t quite place him.</p><p> </p><p>The drunken man cursed a bit but, after eyeing the Asian boy, seemed unwilling to engage in further conflict. He stumbled away, grumbling that if Brett had a man already, he should’ve just said so.</p><p> </p><p>The boy turned to Brett with a smile. “You okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett blinked, a bit dazed by the sudden turn of events, and by the boy’s abrupt change from hostile to friendly.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re also from Juilliard right?” the boy asked, “I think I’ve seen you before.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett nodded wordlessly, drawing a gentle chuckle from the boy. “Well, be careful, I guess. This place is usually pretty safe, but it can get dicey when you’re too cu— . . . anyway, I was about to head out. See you around.”</p><p> </p><p>“See you—” Brett began to say out of habit, then stopped himself. “A-actually, I think I’m done for the night too.” He looked around for his friends, but couldn’t spot them in the dim light of the bar. With a tentative glance at the other boy, he said, “I’ll walk out with you . . . ?”</p><p> </p><p>The boy nodded and gave another mellow smile. Faced with the other boy’s sedate demeanor, Brett’s felt his panic begin to recede.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The streets outside were more or less quiet, save a couple pedestrians here and there. Brett and the boy walked silently side by side for a few paces before the boy asked again if Brett was okay. “You still look a bit shaken.” It was only then that Brett realized he spoke with a slight accent—a mix of Korean and something else, something Brett had heard before.</p><p> </p><p>Brett shook his head and laughed awkwardly. “I’m fine. It was just weird to be hit on like that, I guess . . .”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I’d imagine. I’m heading back to campus, if you want to walk together?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett shook his head again and explained that he didn’t live on campus, though he appreciated the offer. He thanked the boy as he hailed a yellow cab rumbling down the street.</p><p> </p><p>“My name’s Brett, by the way,” he said, before climbing into the car. “Thanks again.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hyung,” replied the boy with an easy grin. “No worries. I’ll catch you around campus.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yep!”</p><p> </p><p>All’s well that ends well, Brett thought with a yawn as he strapped in his seatbelt. From the window, he saw that Hyung was still standing where he’d left him, waving goodbye with a serene smile.  </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>After a restful Sunday filled with nothing but TV and more practice, Brett had more or less put the episode out of his mind. He would avoid that bar in the future and that was that.</p><p> </p><p>Anyway, after all that weekend practice, he waltzed into Monday’s lesson with a bounce to his step, and launched into the Mozart with much confidence. At the very least, he figured that he had more of a leg to stand if Eddy questioned him about practicing. Midway through the piece, he peeked at Eddy over the music stand and saw that the young professor looked a smidge less icy than usual. In fact, when Brett hit a particularly high note in tune, Eddy may even have lifted a corner of his lips. Maybe. Brett couldn’t help but crack a toothy grin over his usual deadpan.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s better,” Eddy conceded, twirling his pen absently.</p><p> </p><p>“Right?” Brett beamed. “I practiced!”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy rolled his eyes, but there was that small curl to his lips again. “And what, do you want a sticker for that?”</p><p> </p><p>Ignoring Brett’s small pout of disappointment, Eddy walked close and told him to lift his violin again. “It’s better, but the sound isn’t resonating as much as it should be and no one’s going to be able to hear you in the concert hall. Try adjusting your violin up. No, that’s not it, like this—”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy reached out and began fiddling with the violin himself. But it was a strange position, with him standing just behind Brett as he adjusted the instrument. Brett noticed for the first time just how much taller Eddy was, and for a moment, he felt as if he were tucked in Eddy’s arms. He could even feel the warmth emanating from the faux-embrace.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy was saying something about vibrato now. His hand grasped Brett’s wrist lightly as he demonstrated. Brett was thinking in a distracted sort of way about how much bigger Eddy’s hands were than his own. He remembered, too, another time that Eddy had grabbed him by the wrist. Was it only a few weeks ago that it happened? Brett felt hazily that things had changed since then, but what exactly? The violence of the first time had vanished entirely; Eddy’s hold on his wrist was now so gentle that he could barely feel it.</p><p> </p><p>“Brett?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett snapped back to attention with a confused blink. Eddy was staring at him questioningly, his face mere inches away. Brett turned abruptly to hide his burning cheeks.</p><p> </p><p>“Vibrato. Yep. Got it.” He wriggled his wrist to indicate that Eddy should release him, which Eddy did.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>In his confusion, he failed to notice the glimmer of amusement in Eddy’s eyes. And that Eddy had called him by his first name.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>For purposes of this fic, Brett's haircut didn't happen ;_; <br/>(Still cute tho)<br/>(Thanks for reading :P &lt;3 )</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sophie Druml had a more methodical approach to life than most musicians. She set aside time to practice, to read, to workout, to eat, to sleep. And on Wednesday afternoons, she set aside time to study with Brett Yang at the campus café before orchestra rehearsal.</p><p> </p><p>Well, “with” is perhaps the wrong preposition. Sophie studied, while Brett found ways to entertain himself. Today, he was scrolling through endless tik toks while eating a hefty slice of cheesecake.</p><p> </p><p>“Have you written your paper for aural class?” asked Sophie.</p><p> </p><p>Brett gave her a bleary-eyed stare over his phone. “What paper?”</p><p> </p><p>This kind of response may have surprised Sophie at one point, but no longer. She’d come to accept that, unlike most people at this prestigious institution, Brett didn’t fret about schoolwork or grades. Or how his violin playing wasn’t quite up to par. Or, more generally, what people thought or said about him. It all slid over him like water over a duck’s back.</p><p> </p><p>Which was just fine, Sophie thought with a small smile. That was what she liked about him in the first place.</p><p> </p><p>As Sophie continued slaving away over her own paper, she noticed from the corner of her eye that Brett had stopped scrolling on his phone and had begun staring into space with a distant look in his eyes, as if his soul had drifted to another dimension. Then, as a layer of pink dusted over his pale cheeks, he scrunched his nose, scoffed in frustration, and stuffed another large bite of cheesecake into his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>Sophie wondered what that was all about. Perhaps just another one of Brett’s many eccentricities?</p><p> </p><p>A light tap on the shoulder pulled her out of her thoughts. She looked up to see the friendly face of Hyungsuk Bae smiling down at her.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey Sophie,” he said in his usual, calm voice. “I was wondering if we could talk about that group paper we have to write for—” Here, he paused suddenly as his eyes drifted to Sophie’s companion. “Ah! You’re that—Brett, right?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett glanced up in surprise, his cheeks still stuffed with cake and looking very much like a human hamster. This drew a small chuckle from Hyung, who continued in an uncharacteristically excited tone, “Hi, we met the other night, do you remember--?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett’s dark eyes darted around nervously as he searched his memory, then lit up with the spark of recognition. “—Oh yeah! The—you’re that guy. . . Hyung, you said?”</p><p> </p><p>Hyung’s eyes curved into smiling crescents as he nodded, and Sophie, who’d never seen this expression from Hyung, was mildly intrigued.</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks for saving my ass that night,” Brett said with an abashed grin and an awkward laugh. “And good to see you again. But how do you know Sophie?”</p><p> </p><p>Without much prompting, Hyung slid into the empty seat at their table and it soon came out that Sophie and Hyung knew each other from the music history seminar, and Hyung and Brett knew each other because Hyung saved Brett from a creep at the bar. With that out of the way, Hyung and Sophie finally returned to the important topic of their group paper, launching into a lengthy discussion about the impact of Hungarian nationalism on the reception of Wagner.</p><p> </p><p>Brett feigned interest for two seconds before he curled back up on his armchair like a small kitten and continued scrolling on his phone.</p><p> </p><p>Sophie didn’t fail to notice that Hyung’s gaze drifted over to Brett more than once, as if he couldn’t quite help himself. Curious, indeed.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Their peaceful study session was interrupted by the approach of Professor Chen, who crept up stealthily and whose sudden arrival caused Brett to jump in his seat. Sophie snickered subtly while Hyung watched on without expression.</p><p> </p><p>“Brett Yang, I’ve been looking for you,” said the young professor in his usual, cool, sardonic voice. “Having just graded your midterm, I’m not sure how you could sit here scrolling through tik toks in good conscience.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett looked away guiltily, but mumbled, “I’m surprised you know about tik tok –”</p><p> </p><p>“What was that?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nothing . . .er . . . so my grade was . . .?”</p><p> </p><p>“Abysmal."--Brett blanched--"I’d like you to come to my office so we can discuss and figure out someway to save you from failing.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, you know, we don’t have to—Sophie could tutor me—”</p><p> </p><p>“This isn’t Ms. Druml’s concern. Come along.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett turned to Sophie with a woeful frown but reluctantly climbed out of his chair. “Bye guys,” he said with a forlorn sigh. “Good seeing you again, Hyung . . . I’ll see you in orchestra, Soph . . .”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy tapped his foot impatiently and motioned for Brett to hurry it up. With a final grimace, Brett packed his stuff and trailed after Eddy.</p><p> </p><p>After they walked away, Sophie exchanged a look with Hyung and laughed. “I swear, Prof. Chen is the only one who can get Brett to do anything. It’s super weird.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is he? For me, it’s stranger that Edwa—Professor Chen’s taken an interest in Brett.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why’s that?” Sophie asked, curious. “You speak as if you know him.”</p><p> </p><p>“We’re from the same town,” Hyung remarked lightly as he took a sip of his coffee. “Went to same music camps and all that. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the guy express interest in anything except winning competitions.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, well, he is very good at the violin—”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s very dull, don’t you think?”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Eddy, sitting beside Brett at his mahogany desk in his cold office as the latter poured over his exam answers, twirled his pen absently a few times, before he finally lost it and tapped the boy on the forehead. “Nine times two is <em>not</em> twelve. This isn’t even theory, it’s just basic math.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett let out a small <em>ouch </em>and glared at Eddy balefully. “I knew that.”</p><p> </p><p>“Did you?” Eddy asked with a raised brow. “And what in the world is an augmented seventh? That doesn’t exist. That’s just an octave. Are you even trying?”</p><p> </p><p>“Y-yeah. I just . . . ran out of time. Besides,” Brett mumbled under his breath. “You can’t fail me anyway.”</p><p> </p><p>“Say that again?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nothing. I said I’m cold,” Brett said with a certain belligerence. “It’s freezing here. Is your thermostat broken? Can we do this another time? I—”</p><p> </p><p>“—You’re cold? Here.” Eddy took the blazer that had been resting on the back of his chair and draped it over Brett. “Now, let’s look at this multiple choice . . .”</p><p> </p><p>The jacket, which was tailored to fit Eddy, hung limply over Brett’s smaller frame, a few sizes too large.</p><p> </p><p>“ . . . the key to multiple choice questions is to read the answers first . . .”</p><p> </p><p>Brett had never thought about it, but Eddy had a distinct scent, a light cologne of some sort that smelled clean and sharp. Brett subconsciously pulled the jacket tighter and inhaled. He rather liked the scent, he found.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy glanced at his wayward pupil and rolled his eyes. That Brett wasn’t focused was readily apparent. On the other hand, the sight of his small body wrapped in his own jacket was not unpleasant. Eddy’s lips lifted at one corner as he watched Brett snuggle deeper into his jacket with a content smile. After all, there were different ways to lay claim to a person, he thought abstractedly.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy leaned close to Brett and asked in a low whisper, “Are you even listening?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett started, his eyes growing wide. He gave a few stiff, quick nods. “Yeah. You were saying that a modem is a—”</p><p> </p><p>“—Mordent.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh.”</p><p> </p><p>A snort of exasperation escaped Eddy. “You’ve got cake crumbs on your face, by the way.”</p><p> </p><p>“Huh?”</p><p> </p><p>Before Brett could swipe at them, Eddy had already gotten a tissue and wiped them off with surprising gentleness. A delightful pink crept into Brett’s cheeks as he ducked away, a beat too slow.</p><p> </p><p>The university clock tower struck five. Brett jumped up from his seat, as if it were on fire. “Uh, I’ve got to go. Orchestra practice. I’ll work on the—I’ll study—I’ll uh—see you around.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy didn’t stop him, watching with amusement as Brett stumbled out of his office, still wrapped in his jacket. He wondered if Brett would carry his scent with him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This is really shaping up to be the worst summer, but at least we've got Twoset lol.  Thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Juilliard’s annual fundraising gala – black tie only – was scheduled to take place the following week at Cipriani’s, so naturally, Eddy’s Saturday afternoon was ruined by Belle’s insistence that they go shopping. It was somewhat incomprehensible to Eddy, as Belle had accumulated ten thousand gowns already for her solo recitals, but he knew that women, once they’d made up their mind that they needed a new dress, were difficult to dissuade.</p><p> </p><p>Bergdorf had a vestigial and austere elegance that other New York department stores had long lost. In its perfumed halls, the women swung their Hermes bags carelessly and clipped along in their Louboutins while engaging in quiet chatter and soft giggles. The stench of Fifth Avenue—the sweat of tourists, the smell of horse dung, the urine of the homeless – was kept safely at bay; the world was a dazzling place where the worst thing that could happen was someone else picking up the last limited edition Chanel jacket in the time it took you to take out your AmEx.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy knew next to nothing about evening gowns. In fact, a few years ago, when one of his female peers at the conservatory had coquettishly asked for his opinion of her dress—a strapless low-cut number that exposed a whole lot of cleavage—he had realized that he didn’t have much interest in women, generally speaking.</p><p> </p><p>He sat stiffly on a white couch outside the dressing room, tapping his foot to the bland elevator music assaulting his ears while trying to eke out the next phrase to his composition.</p><p> </p><p>He hadn’t made much progress since that night at the Lincoln Center. Every melody he wrote sounded vaguely like something he’d heard before. There was nothing novel or interesting about it.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>This weekend at the Royal Festival Hall, young Australian violinist Edward Chen performed the Tschaikovsky Violin Concerto. Chen’s smooth performance displayed technical mastery with clarity of sound and intelligence of concept, bringing him a standing ovation. Yet, there was something faintly imitative in his playing, recalling to mind the romanticism the likes of Nathan Milstein, but lacking true emotional resonance. Chen, who first rose to prominence as a child prodigy playing obvious fare and who can dazzle crowds with his technical virtuosity, appears to be in search still for his own creative style . . . .</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Eddy crossed out a few notes and put away his sheet music.</p><p>A young woman standing a few racks over was lamenting loudly to her friend about men—apparently, one of her conquests looked better on paper and was the one she <em>should</em> date but the other one was more fun and “felt right,” whatever that meant. Eddy’s brows furrowed. Vapid, he thought absently. If you really wanted someone, none of that would matter. For example, hypothetically speaking, it wouldn’t matter that they couldn’t play the violin well or were flunking their classes or, very probably, dating an older sugar daddy. It wouldn’t matter, because you were pretty rich too and you could just steal them over and—</p><p> </p><p>“Eddy, what do you think?” Belle asked, popping out of the dressing room.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy looked up and shrugged. “Looks just like the last one you tried . . . ?”</p><p> </p><p>Belle took a deep breath and muttered <em>useless</em> under her breath, which made Eddy smile. He was about to lob a retort when he caught a look excitement on Belle’s face.</p><p> </p><p>“Jenny!” she cried unexpectedly. Confused, Eddy followed her gaze towards entrance and saw that a young Asian woman had just entered their section of the store. The young woman, spotting or hearing Belle, shouted her name back and the two ladies were soon galloping towards each other for a dramatic hug.</p><p> </p><p>It was utterly bizarre, but what made the scene all the more surreal to Eddy was that Brett Yang had trailed in after the young woman, and was staring back at him with complete bewilderment.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“This is my good friend, Jenny,” Belle explained after everyone had calmed down.</p><p> </p><p>It turned out they had met when Belle was studying abroad in Taiwan years ago, and had really hit it off. It also came to light that Jenny was Brett’s cousin. Small world.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, I guess we don’t really need you guys here anymore,” Belle remarked casually, “You’re welcome.” Jenny had giggled in agreement and shooed them away.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>And that’s how Eddy found himself standing with Brett on the corner of 57<sup>th</sup> and 5<sup>th</sup>, wondering what to do next.</p><p> </p><p>Having hit November, a real chill had descended upon the city and the skies had begun to darken, though it was only 4 pm. Eddy was still contemplating the strange, invisible threads that bound the world together when Brett asked, “So . . . you sure you can just leave like that? Won’t your girlfriend get mad? In my experience—”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy did a double take. “Girlfriend? That was my sister.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh. Sorry. Not familiar,” said Brett, blinking innocently.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy rolled his eyes heavenward—did Brett live under a rock, or?—but he let it drop. “Anyway, what do you mean, in your experience? Had a lot of girlfriends?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett shrugged but flashed a smirk at Eddy. “A few,” he said.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy felt a flare of irritation, which he showed with the tiniest of frowns.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, I’m heading back,” he said coldly. “I’ll see you on Monday—”</p><p> </p><p>A loud rumble interrupted Eddy’s speech. Brett looked down with modest embarrassment. “Didn’t have lunch,” he explained in a small voice.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy raised a brow, but didn’t comment. Not his problem. With a terse bye, he turned to walk away, only to be stopped when Brett’s small hand clasped onto the sleeve his coat. Brett gave him a beseeching stare from behind thick, round lenses. “I left my wallet at home . . .”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Brett hadn’t anticipated running into Eddy over the weekend, but here they were, seated beneath fluorescent lights and fake palm trees at the Plaza Hotel, separated by a heaping tray of finger foods.</p><p> </p><p>A small part of Brett felt bad about it. Afternoon tea at the Palm Court wasn’t exactly cheap, but food options were limited in that part of town and tea had seemed enticing. He glanced guiltily at Eddy.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy didn’t seem too upset. He was sipping at a cup of black coffee and scrolling absently through his phone.</p><p> </p><p>It was strange seeing him in this light, Brett thought. In a tight black turtleneck and casual flannel, he lost his stern professorial vibe and looked more the artsy hipster from Williamsburg. But with more muscle. Brett tilted his head in thought. Do violinists work out?</p><p> </p><p>Eddy peered up suddenly and their eyes met. Brett quickly looked away and stuffed another bite of cucumber sandwich in his mouth. He heard Eddy laugh lightly.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t choke.”</p><p> </p><p>“I won’t,” Brett said reproachfully through his chewing.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy grimaced and was telling him to please chew with his mouth closed when a small girl of nine or ten ran up to their table. With bouncing braids and a bright smile, she stared at Eddy with stars in her eyes. “Hi! You’re Eddy Chen!”</p><p> </p><p>An older woman—her mother, presumably—rushed over and apologized profusely, explaining that her daughter was learning the violin and was a fan of Eddy’s. “Celine, come along, let’s not disturb them while they’re eating.”</p><p> </p><p>“But I just wanted to say hi,” said the girl with a cute pout.</p><p> </p><p>To Brett’s surprise, Eddy gave her a kind smile and said he didn’t mind. He even agreed to take a picture with her, and by the end of it, the girl was grinning from ear to ear. “But when are you going to perform again? It’s been so long!” she complained, unheeding as her mother tried to drag her away.</p><p> </p><p>Brett’s ears perked up.</p><p> </p><p>“Soon,” said Eddy noncommittally. He gave her another warm smile and a few words of encouragement, before he sent her off.</p><p> </p><p>Brett observed the scene unfold with mute shock. To him, Eddy had only two modes—ice cube and angry, disappointed teacher. The Eddy who was full of kind smiles and soft words for cute little girls was a bizarre curiosity. Brett <em>tsked</em> internally. What a sucker.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy, who saw various expressions flit across Brett’s face, let out a quiet sigh. Part of him wondered what strange thoughts were flowing through that mischievous brain of Brett’s; another part of him didn’t want to know.</p><p> </p><p>“Hurry up and finish your food,” he prompted dryly. “I’ve got to be downtown by seven.”</p><p> </p><p>“What for?” Brett asked, popping another one of the petit fours in his mouth. He smiled at the burst of chocolate on his tongue.</p><p> </p><p>“An old friend’s performing at the Morgan and I agreed to accompany.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett perked up in excitement. “So you <em>are </em>performing again! Should’ve told that little girl. She’d probably go watch.”</p><p> </p><p>“Accompanying on the piano,” Eddy clarified.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh.” For some reason, Brett found himself slightly disappointed at this.</p><p> </p><p>In truth (not that Brett would ever admit to anyone), ever since Eddy performed the Paganini at the all strings workshop, Brett had wanted to hear something more from him—more than the small demos he did during lessons. He’d even gone so far as to look up Eddy’s concert schedule—secretly, of course—only to discover that Eddy had none planned, having apparently ceased all public performances since last summer.</p><p> </p><p>“Why don’t you perform anymore?”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy glanced at him sharply. A short paused lingered in the air. Without quite answering, Eddy responded, “Why do you persist in playing the violin?”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s not fair,” Brett said, scrunching his nose. “I already told you.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy shrugged. Brett knew that no answer would be forthcoming and they lapsed into silence again as Brett single-handedly finished the rest of the food. After Eddy called for the bill, Brett asked on a whim, “ Can I come watch tonight?”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy regarded him with surprise. “You want to spend your Saturday night watching me accompany someone on the piano?”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure, why not?” He had originally been tasked with taking his cousin out to dinner, but since he’d been relieved of that, watching a performance seemed as a good a plan as any other.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay. If you want.”</p><p> </p><p>As Brett watched him sign the $100 receipt, his sense of guilt crept back. “I’ll pay you back on Monday, promise.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy rolled his eyes. “You can repay me best by practicing your piece and not embarrassing me at the recital.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>By the time they made it outside, the skies were pitch black and the streets glowed orange and red from car lights. Brett offered to call an Uber, but Eddy shook his head.</p><p> </p><p>“It’ll take too long in this traffic. Let’s just take the subway.”</p><p> </p><p>“Subway?” Brett asked, crinkling his nose.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy raised a brow. “What’s wrong with the subway? You’re a New Yorker, aren’t you?”</p><p> </p><p>“I guess . . .” Brett said doubtfully. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken the subway—had he ever, for that matter? One of his mother’s colleagues had once joked with him that there was a reason the subway was called “public transportation.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s taken by the public,” the man had said with a disdainful chuckle. And Brett Yang was emphatically not the public.</p><p> </p><p>Still, he let Eddy lead him down the stairs of the 59<sup>th</sup> street station.</p><p> </p><p>A sense of unease swelled in Brett as they descended. It being around dinnertime, the platform was crowded with a motley crew of people. A few panhandlers were shuffling their way through the crowds; some buskers were shredding pop songs on their violin for pennies and quarters; large rats scurried around the tracks; and the faint smell of urine assaulted Brett’s nose. He bit his lower lip and surreptitiously slid closer to Eddy, hoping the train would come sooner.</p><p> </p><p>The train itself wasn’t much better. Everyone was packed in like sardines, and the seats were all taken. Brett eyed the metal railing skeptically and couldn’t quite bring himself to touch it. The result was, of course, that he quickly lost his footing when the train started moving and tumbled into the person standing next to him.</p><p> </p><p>Which was Eddy.</p><p> </p><p>Brett smiled weakly at the beleaguered professor as he righted himself.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy pursed his lips and shook his head. But to Brett’s surprise, Eddy placed an arm lightly but firmly around his shoulder to steady him.</p><p> </p><p>“Stand still,” he said.</p><p> </p><p>Brett nodded. He was more than a little embarrassed for himself but he was, nevertheless, thankful for Eddy’s arm. It was only arm, of course, but Brett felt, in a vague sort of way, that it had the power to shield him. He leaned into it subtly and let out a breath of relief.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>It has been the most exhausting week. I miss taking the subways ;_;</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Saturday evening at the Morgan wasn’t the busiest, and what visitors were there spent most of their time milling around the various exhibits. Just a few older folks—and some kids on fancy dates—sat in the café for overpriced dinner or glasses of wine. Brett remarked that it didn’t seem like the kind of venue for someone like Eddy, whose concerts are usually hundreds of dollars per seat.</p><p>“A favor for a friend,” Eddy repeated. “Anyway, I’m only a mediocre piano player.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett wasn’t sure he bought that. Eddy didn’t seem like the kind of person who allowed himself to be mediocre at anything.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy’s friend turned out to be the wife of one of the museum directors, who’d given up her (admittedly, farfetched) dreams of becoming a soloist to assume the role of rich housewife. For her 30<sup>th</sup> birthday, her husband her gifted her a performance opportunity in the prominent halls of the museum and she’d taken it upon herself to call up Eddy, in case that would attract a bigger audience. (It didn’t.)</p><p> </p><p>She seemed nice enough, but Brett viewed her with some alarm. Something in her posture suggested that she wanted to reach out and pinch his cheeks in the way that middle-aged women sometimes did. In fact, Brett was sure she would do it, if she weren’t being held back by her very harassed-looking husband.</p><p> </p><p>“She can’t resist cuteness,” he explained, then apologized. “Sorry. No offense.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why would he be offended?” asked his wife. “It’s a compliment, really. Eddy used to be cute too, though you wouldn’t know it now. We used to be neighbors, you know, and he used to come over all the time to watch me play and use my violin. Used to cry when his parents tried to take him home.”</p><p> </p><p>Ah, is that so? Brett turned to Eddy with an amused grin.</p><p> </p><p>“In fact, if it wasn’t for me, he probably wouldn’t have become a violinist at all. His parents were dead set on making him a doctor. Of course, that changed when it turned out that he was a prodigy. They let him play all he wanted after that, but I guess they also took the joy out of it—”</p><p> </p><p>“Catherine,” Eddy said in warning. “That’s old news. Anyway, it’s getting late. Should we get started?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, fine. But, by the way, I’d forgotten to get a page turner. Will you manage? I’m sure you know the piece, but just in case, since Brett’s here, maybe he can . . .?”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy glanced at Brett with deep skepticism. “No, I’d better just do it myself—”</p><p> </p><p>“I can do it!”</p><p> </p><p>“Excellent,” said Catherine with a wink.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Brett sat on a stool next to the piano bench and, for at least the first minute or so, stared dutifully at the score for Beethoven’s <em>Spring</em>, but bit by bit, his gaze was pulled towards Eddy’s fingers, which danced fluidly across the black and white keys as easily as if they were violin strings. Mediocre his ass.</p><p> </p><p>Weird how two humans could be so different, Brett thought. Eddy’s hands must be at least twice the size of his own. He had noticed that even when they first met—large hands that could be strong and brutish, but that also delicate and nimble. Like Eddy Chen himself, two-sided, and which side you got apparently depended on whether you were a cute little girl. Which Brett was not.</p><p> </p><p>But more importantly, was Eddy really a prodigy, or had God just gifted him with large hands?</p><p> </p><p>Deep in thought, it took him a second to notice that Eddy was making faces at him, and another second to realize that the music had progressed beyond the first page. With a start, he leapt into action. It was too late. Eddy had already handled the page turn himself with a disgruntled shake of the head. Brett heard a few giggles from the audience. He sat back down with a sigh. Oops.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy suppressed a sigh of his own. He had foreseen this outcome—had anticipated it from the moment he noticed Brett’s attention wandering. The only thing that kept him from losing his temper was the fact that Brett was staring at <em>him</em>. That, and the slightly dazed look on the rounded, childish face wasn't entirely unattractive.</p><p>    </p><p>Presently, another page turn was on the horizon. With hidden amusement, Eddy saw Brett tense up from the corner of his eye. At least he was paying attention, thought Eddy. Surely, this time, he would succeed—But no, of course not. In his enthusiasm, Brett had gotten up early and had thrust his head between Eddy and the score, completely blocking Eddy’s view. For a few moments, Eddy saw nothing but the back of the small rounded head, with the now-familiar scent of Brett’s shampoo invading his senses.</p><p> </p><p>With anyone else, Eddy would have lost his temper and caused a scene, but with Brett . . . Sometimes, in his frantic movements, Brett turned his face just so and Eddy was afforded an uninhibited view of his smooth cheek, so close that Eddy could take a bite, if he felt so inclined. Which, of course, he didn’t.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The performance ended without a hitch, despite the Brett’s best efforts. After the audience applauded and everyone took their bows, someone—one of Cathy’s friends—unexpectedly called for an encore. She laughingly declined. “I haven’t prepared anything. Although,” –she glanced at Eddy— “We have one of the great, young masters here, so if he’d like to try my new violin . . . ?”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy shook his head. Admittedly, the violin, expensive and rare, intrigued him, but he hadn’t prepared anything either, and the last thing he needed was another blistering critique by a hidden journalist. God knows he’s had enough of that for a lifetime.</p><p> </p><p>Cathy gave a frown of disappointment, but then shrugged it off as she set her sights on Brett. “Then, perhaps Brett can . . . ? As Eddy’s disciple, I’m sure you could show us a thing or two—”</p><p> </p><p>“Certainly not—”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy turned to Brett with disbelief. “What the fuck?” he whispered, which drew small laugh from Brett.</p><p> </p><p>“It’ll be fine,” the boy said flippantly. “I want to try her violin. Besides, it’ll be like a test run for the recital.”</p><p> </p><p>And with that, he graciously accepted Cathy’s violin, took a bow to the scattered audience that remained, and launched into his Mozart sonata.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy, who found that he had no choice but to take a seat, watched Brett with growing bewilderment. What gave him the confidence to just perform? And to perform with such verve? The Brett who played before the public was different from the Brett in class. He stared at his audience with a cheeky self-assurance that grew by the note, his lips curling into an irrepressible smirk that he couldn’t quite hide. Nevermind that his beats were slightly off or that he didn’t always hit the right notes; none of that seemed to bother him, or even register. He played on with an irreverent joy, his eyes shining beneath his lashes, a captivating sight in its own right . . .</p><p> </p><p>When the audience again burst into applause, Eddy felt the irrational impulse to whisk Brett away and hide him. Brett would be his discovery, and his alone.</p><p> </p><p>Brett skipped to him with a pleased grin. “Well?” he said. “Pretty good, right?” The insolence in his tone, and the corresponding challenge, was obvious. If I can play in front of these people, why can’t you?</p><p> </p><p>So stupid, really. But Eddy found that he did want to play, a little. Not because he wanted to please Cathy, who was staring at him with anticipation, and not because he wanted to wow the audience, who didn’t seem to know him anyway, but just because. Because it seemed like it might be fun.</p><p> </p><p>He took the violin from Brett’s outstretched hands and stepped up to the front. He looked at the strange faces in the audience and wondered briefly what they thought of him; then, as his eyes settled on Brett, he discovered that he didn’t really care. He could play what he wanted.</p><p> </p><p>The serene melody of Bach’s Andante floated through the air. Bach had composed it out of religious fervor, for his angels. Eddy played it now under the stained glass windows of the Morgan, staring into the dark eyes of his mischievous little devil. And somehow, that seemed just right.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Brett had heard this piece a long, long time ago, when he was half his current height, and when he still had both his parents.</p><p> </p><p>Brett’s parents had their differences but they were both lovers of music, and maybe that’s how they fell for each other. Of course, at some point many years ago, his father had decided that Brett and his mother weren’t worth the trouble and had walked out on their lives forever.</p><p> </p><p>But before that, when his parents were still in love—or thought they were—and before they were so rich that they devoted all their time to making and managing money, they would sometimes go out together as a family to listen to music. Symphonies at Carnegie Hall, ballets at Lincoln Center . . .</p><p> </p><p>His most vivid memory, though, was of a muggy summer night when the three of them had wandered through Washington Square Park, where the fountain gurgled happily and the fireflies flashed a brilliant gold. He remembered his parents holding his hands as they chatted over his head about things that had faded to dust.</p><p> </p><p>An NYU student was playing violin in the background—Bach’s Andante, though he didn’t know it at the time. The melody wafted through the fresh night air like the fragrant steam from a mug of warm, milk tea. He remembered thinking that nothing could sound more perfect, and when the piece ended, he had turned to his father with a look of wonder and said, “<em>I </em>want to learn to play that too.” And his father had smiled in delight and given him a pat on the head . . . .</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>When the reverberations from the last note faded into a haunting silence, Brett averted his eyes and wiped harshly at his cheeks.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Eddy watched Brett thoughtfully as he declined Cathy’s invite for a late dinner. The forced smile was a new look; he wasn’t sure he liked it. “I’ll walk him out,” he said to his old friend, who gave him a knowing smile. He wanted to say <em>it’s not what you think</em>—but then, maybe it was.</p><p> </p><p>It was empty and dark outside in the courtyard before the museum, save for a few streetlights and of course, the endless stream of cars. Still, he could just make out the puffiness around Brett’s eyes, and the pink tint on the tip of his nose.</p><p> </p><p>“I take it you won’t be taking the subway?” he teased.</p><p> </p><p>Brett shook his head wordlessly. There was an inexplicable sad look in his eyes that tugged at Eddy’s heartstrings more than it should have. Rashly, he reached an arm around Brett and drew the smaller boy close, in a loose hug. Brett stood stiffly and looked up in surprise, his eyes bright beneath wet lashes, his lips just slightly parted. Eddy’s heart quickened a beat.</p><p> </p><p>He’d always had less self-control in some respects than others.</p><p> </p><p>Without much forethought, he leaned down and kissed Brett.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I know everyone loves Brett's Tschaik, but I actually love it when he plays Bach.  He always stares into the camera with such confidence. Hehe.  Also, if you haven't watched the page turning video, you must.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Another Tuesday, similar to the others but not quite the same. Perhaps because October’s mild sunshine had given way to November’s gloomy drizzles, or perhaps because the trees had shed most of their leaves and now stood bare and dormant, waiting for better days, or perhaps because Brett wasn’t his normal, carefree self. He wore a slack-jawed expression, with an absent gaze that carried just a hint of turbulence. His phone dangled from his limp fingers, forgotten, until it dropped to the floor with an unpleasant clank, startling its owner from his reverie.</p><p> </p><p>Sophie peered at him over her laptop. “What’s wrong with you?</p><p> </p><p>“Nothing.”</p><p> </p><p>A lie, if there ever was one. But Sophie was patient; she could wait.</p><p> </p><p>“Well,” he said, after a second or two. “I guess there is something. It’s not a big deal. But just, you know, what does it mean if—I mean, just hypothetically—if someone you knew—suddenly, like, kissed-you-out-of-the-blue?”</p><p> </p><p>Aha. So that was it. Sophie suppressed a smile. “Wow, Brett, I did not know you were so innocent—”</p><p> </p><p>“—Not <em>me</em>, just—”</p><p> </p><p>“Ok, your hypothetical friend then. Still. What <em>could</em> it mean? This someone must like you, of course. Or your friend, rather. Who is it?”</p><p> </p><p>“No one you know.” Brett’s eyes swirled around thoughtfully. “Anyway, that’s not it. It couldn’t be.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why not?”</p><p> </p><p>“Because he couldn’t possibly—this guy, I mean, who hypothetically kissed my hypothetical friend—isn’t the type. He’s never said anything. It was probably just a whim or something, now that I think about it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh huh. Sure. And, just out of curiosity, how does your hypothetical friend feel about it?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett cleared his throat and looked away. “I—how would I know? That’s not important.” The splotches of red on his cheeks indicated otherwise, not that Sophie was so tactless as to point it out.</p><p> </p><p>“Perhaps your friend should figure it out. And maybe talk to ‘this guy,’ whoever he may be.”</p><p> </p><p>“…Nah.”</p><p> </p><p>Ok then. Sophie sighed and turned back to her work. In her infinite wisdom, she knew that some things couldn’t be rushed. Besides, the longer it dragged out, the more amusement there promised to be for her.</p><p> </p><p>Their brief silence was broken by Sumina, who wandered to their table with a large cup of coffee, her soft brown eyes brimming with melancholy. “And what’s wrong with you?” Sophie asked. Was it the something in the air?</p><p> </p><p>“It’s Ray,” said Sumina, collapsing into a vacant chair somewhat dramatically. “He’s stuck in Australia for the next month to rehearse with SSO.”</p><p> </p><p>This drew Brett out of his thoughts. “Australia? It’s all about Australia these days, isn’t it?”</p><p> </p><p>“What? What else is about Australia?”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh—nothing. Never mind. So what’s the problem?”</p><p> </p><p>“Long distance sucks, is the problem. Also, we’re both so busy that we’ve barely got time to talk. There’s the recital next week, and then I’ve got yearend competitions, which are all piled up before the holidays. Not to mention orchestra, and papers, and—ugh—I’m ready to tear my hair out.”</p><p> </p><p>Now this, Sophie could sympathize with. “Yes, especially the competitions,” she agreed. “My instructor’s already upped me to two lessons a week, which is—how do you say?—killer.”</p><p> </p><p>“Same,” Sumina complained. “Chen’s young, but he’s no joke when it comes to competitions. I guess he’s got something to prove, too.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett again perked up, though he didn’t interrupt.</p><p> </p><p>“I shouldn’t complain, I guess. He can only send a few students, and he chose me, so I should be grateful—” she paused abruptly and darted self-conscious look at Brett. Brett smiled carelessly and motioned for her to go on.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s fine .We all knew he wouldn’t have sent <em>me</em> to competition.”</p><p> </p><p>Sumina gave an apologetic chuckle. “Sorry. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll get there one day. You’ve improved a lot, you know. We can all tell. You’ll be at the recital next week, right? Anyway, about Ray, he called me the other night and said . . . .”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Before Sumina left for her lessons, Brett handed her a large shopping bag. “For Chen,” he explained reluctantly. “I had to borrow his blazer the other day. You can tell him it’s been dry cleaned.”</p><p> </p><p>“You borrowed <em>Chen’s</em> jacket?” Sumina asked, wide-eyed. “The guy who threw a fit last time Bea moved his mug from his desk? That Chen? He let you wear his jacket?”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s different,” Brett said, batting at the air with a frown. “Anyway, can you just give it to him? Thanks.”</p><p> </p><p>“But why can’t you? You guys bickering again? I swear you bring out his most childish side.”</p><p> </p><p>“What? <em>No. </em> I…just…I don’t have time.”</p><p> </p><p>Sophie gave Sumina a subtle nudge, stopping her just short of retorting, and indicated that she should just go. Sophie wondered, though, what Chen’s role in all this was. Surely, he couldn’t be ‘that guy’ . . . ? She turned her gaze thoughtfully on Brett, who studiously looked away.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Outside, the rain had finally stopped, but the air was still cold and wet. There was something refreshing about that though, as if the storm had washed the world clean. Brett paused on the front steps of the college and took a deep breath. The icy inhale helped clear his mind.</p><p> </p><p>How does your friend feel about it, Sophie had asked. His answer had been genuine. How was he supposed to know?</p><p> </p><p>It had been easier to decipher in the beginning. Eddy was the young professor with the stick up his ass, and it amused Brett to get under his skin, that was all. But something had changed, hadn’t it? At some point, their banter became funnier and carried less of a sting. Maybe because Brett had figured out that Eddy’s bark was worse than his bite. The eyerolls, the admonitions over his failure to practice . . . more show than anything. Besides, Brett knew that if he put on the right look—some blend of pitiful and pleading—Eddy’s tone would soften and he’d eventually resign himself to whatever nonsense Brett put him up to.</p><p> </p><p>So at some point, if Brett were totally honest, he stopped disliking Eddy. He might even like him a little, platonically, of course. And sometimes, Brett even looked forward to his lessons, or running into Eddy around campus. He was almost sorry that he’d skipped Monday’s lesson and this morning’s theory class.</p><p> </p><p>Which was the problem.</p><p> </p><p>Memories of that night flooded his mind, as they often did these past few days. They played on repeat as his exhausted brain tried to parse out the details.</p><p> </p><p>The kiss itself was almost chaste, the gentle pressing of lips upon lips. Eddy’s felt warm and soft on his own, and they lingered for a few seconds—no more—before Eddy drew away slowly. His dark eyes were half-lidded as they stared down at Brett’s upturned face. They carried a hint of a question, but also a subtle touch of triumph.</p><p> </p><p>A dulcet silence fell over them. Brett thought vaguely that he should step away, or say something, but his mind was blank and he could only stare at Eddy. Eddy laughed quietly. He was still holding Brett in that loose hug, and Brett could pull free if he wanted to. But did he want to? It felt nice to be held. He stood still for another second, or two, or three.</p><p> </p><p>His uber had pulled into the driveway with a loud screech. Eddy let go of him and opened the door. After gently nudging Brett in and strapping his seatbelt for him, he ruffled Brett’s hair. “Good night,” he had said in a low, sultry voice that Brett could still hear in his head.</p><p> </p><p>Brett took another deep breath.</p><p> </p><p>To cross that line—no matter how enticing—was to invite the beginning of the end. Relationships like that never last, as Brett knew too well, so better not to try. It was too bad. If only they could erase that kiss, and revert to the status quo, and form a friendship that could have been . . .</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Someone tapped him on the shoulder, pulling him from his thoughts, and after a few surprised blinks, he found himself face to face with Hyung.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you just spacing out?” asked the older boy, his amusement apparent.</p><p> </p><p>Brett gave an embarrassed laugh. “Yeah, a little. What are you up to? Haven’t seen you around lately.”</p><p> </p><p>“Been busy. I have concert coming up that I’ve been preparing for.”</p><p> </p><p>That’s cool, said Brett, but Hyung shrugged it off as if it was no big deal. “Do you want to sit with me for awhile?”</p><p> </p><p>“What, now? Here?”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure. Here’s a good a place as any.” Hyung placed the few sheets of newspaper he’d been holding onto the steps and motioned for Brett to sit. Brett hesitated for a moment—he wasn’t quite sure what to make of the situation--but figured that he had a few hours to spare.</p><p> </p><p>They sat in a strange silence. Though they were next each other, Hyung made no move to converse, but instead seemed to be intently tracing the wet leaves on the ground with his gaze. A curious exercise. Wondering what it was all about, Brett too began to look for patterns in the splotches of yellow and orange—a carpet of death and decay, harkening the end of a year. But pretty in its own way. As his eyes ran over one leaf then another, Brett’s breath began to slow, and the chaotic thoughts swirling in his mind finally receded, allowing him a rare moment of peace.</p><p> </p><p>Hyung turned to him with a smile. “You seemed upset. Sometimes, it’s nice to just take a breath and stare at nothing.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett looked at him in wonder.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re right. Do you do this often? It’s pretty nice.”</p><p> </p><p>Hyung laughed and shook his head. “No, not really. Actually, I’ll be performing Holst’s <em>Fall of the Leaf</em>, so I thought I’d take some time to look at the fallen leaves. See if it gives me some insight. But glad it helped you.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett wrapped his arms around legs and rested his chin on his knees. “It’s rare that people in New York take time to stare at nothing,” he mused. “Especially now, I feel like everyone’s nervous about all the work coming up. Are you nervous?”</p><p> </p><p>“For my performance, you mean? Not really. I’ve always liked performing. It’s just a way to share my music, so I don’t think too hard about it. It’s just fun.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, that’s a good approach too,” Brett said, smiling. It’s not just the leaves, he thought to himself. Talking to Hyung was calming in its own way. He should try it more often.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Eddy observed the scene unfolding beneath his window thoughtfully. Hyungsuk Bae, wasn’t it? He vaguely remembered seeing him at various events growing up, though they’d never really clicked. He seemed to recall that Hyung was never the best cellist, technically speaking, but that he somehow impressed people. His playing’s interesting, they would say, whatever that meant.</p><p> </p><p>And then, unlike Eddy, he was always surrounded by friends. He bestowed smiles upon them unconditionally, much like he was smiling at Brett now. But to smile at everyone, meant that no one was special, didn’t it?</p><p> </p><p>“Professor Chen?”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy turned back to Sumina. “Sorry, you were saying?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh that, we’re playing Chopin’s piano concerto for orchestra. It’s not too taxing, so I don’t think it’ll conflict with the competition.”</p><p> </p><p>“Chopin . . . number 1 or 2?”</p><p> </p><p>“Number 2. Do you know it? I’m obsessed with the<em> larghetto</em>. It’s one of the most romantic melodies I’ve ever heard.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is it romantic?” Eddy asked, doubtful.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes! He wrote it for his first love, you know, an opera singer. Poured his heart into it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure, he poured his heart into it, but she turned around and married someone else all the same, didn’t she? No,” Eddy remarked contemplatively, “I don’t think excess an show of love is the right approach. Romance, as with all things, requires restraint. A little push and pull, to keep things exciting, so no one takes it for granted.”</p><p> </p><p>Sumina nodded slowly. “I see your point. So I shouldn’t call Ray before he calls me, is what you’re saying?”</p><p> </p><p>“Who’s Ray?” Eddy asked blankly.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah . . . never mind,” said Sumina. She should’ve figured that he wasn’t listening.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>By Thursday, Brett had successfully avoided Eddy for almost week, and, while the memories of Eddy’s kiss still plagued him, it wasn’t quite so bad as before. He was able to think about and do other things for long stretches of time, before the memories resurfaced. And when they did, he would try to stare at nothing so that they would go away again.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Brett snuck into orchestra practice from the back, worried that he was late.</p><p> </p><p>“Where’s the conductor,” he whispered, after he successfully slid into his seat.</p><p> </p><p>His deskie shrugged in ignorance. “We have a sub today, remember? Probably Prof. Thomas again, and he’s probably late because he’s so old.”</p><p> </p><p>But it wasn’t old Professor Thomas. It was young Professor Chen, who rolled in a few seconds later and glided up to the podium, poised and elegant. He was wearing the gray blazer that Brett had recently returned, looking strangely sharp. (Had Brett once thought he looked boring?) Brett blinked a few times to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. He wasn’t.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy’s eyes swept over the students in that disaffected way of his, as if no one really mattered. His gaze paused just briefly on Brett, then moved on. He showed no particular emotion—nothing to indicate that anything special had transpired. Just another student.</p><p> </p><p>Which was good, Brett thought. It wasn’t how he anticipated this to go, but that’s how it should be. Best that they just continue as before, and both forget about what was surely just an accident. He didn’t mind.</p><p> </p><p>“You okay?” his deskie whispered. “You look like you’re about to break your bow or something.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett unclenched his fingers with a frown. “Fine,” he said.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I am crying from their diss track (but also cringing) lmao</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A wave of murmurs rippled through the orchestra. Eddy tapped his baton on his stand and signaled for everyone to quiet down. He was just filling in for the day, let’s take it from the top, etc.</p><p> </p><p>“Sucks, man,” said Brett’s deskie, who had always been chattier than Brett liked. “Thomas would’ve let us take it easy. Probably could’ve gotten out early. Chen’s a whole other story. . . . Hey, isn’t he your instructor? What’s he like? –-Oh, wait, I guess he wouldn’t pay you much attention. I mean, no offense, I’m in the same boat, us back row seconds.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett winced lightly, then hid it with a smile and shrug. No offense taken. He began tuning to preempt further conversation. Eddy raised the baton and gave a few beats. He still didn’t look at Brett.</p><p> </p><p>Which was fine, thought Brett, as he joined the other violins to open the symphony. He focused his attention on the score, though he couldn’t avoid giving the conductor an occasional glance here and there. Eddy’s brows remained tightly knit, as if the playing wasn’t quite up to par. But to be fair, his conducting was nothing to write home about; it was as stiff as if he were teaching theory class, were Brett’s vindictive thoughts.</p><p> </p><p>Brett’s deskie made no move to turn the page when they reached the end, which Brett found strange. No matter, thought Brett with a small, proud smirk. For once, he was prepared and had memorized the next part. With great confidence, he brought his bow down to for the loud chord that he knew was coming. </p><p> </p><p>Everyone else remained pianissimo. Heads whipped around in bewilderment. Brett’s deskie half-cringed, half laughed and belatedly tilted his chin at the repeat sign. Oops.</p><p> </p><p>Brett raised his gaze guiltily towards Eddy—as anticipated, he was staring back, his eyes bugging out in . . . surprise? Anger?  Brett looked down again quickly.</p><p> </p><p>To atone, he played extra vigorously for the rest of the piece. Too vigorously, as it were. Halfway through the climax, his E string snapped, and the wire just grazed his cheek. Stunned, he froze in place, his arm still hovering mid-air.</p><p> </p><p>Up front, Eddy motioned for everyone to stop.</p><p> </p><p>“Keep practicing, I’ll be back shortly. Brett Yang, you come with me.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>In one of the backstage dressing rooms, Brett sat before Eddy on an old, rickety chair while Eddy kneeled before him and cleaned the blood from the shallow cut on his cheek with an alcohol swab. Brett recoiled from the sting, but Eddy’s harsh <em>sit still</em> and his sharp glare held him in place. He stared down at his lap guiltily.  The apprehensive looks he shot at Eddy from time to time made Eddy want to laugh, not that you could tell from his stony expression.</p><p> </p><p>Brett cleared his throat and said, “So-rry,” in his most contrite tone. Eddy sighed—he’d heard that one before—and stuck a small band-aid on Brett’s cheek. His expression was cold, but his touch was light.</p><p> </p><p>“I could’ve guessed something like this would happen,” Eddy muttered under his breath. “You never make it easy for me.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett frowned. “Well, you didn’t have to stop the whole orchestra,” he said plaintively, suddenly annoyed. “I could’ve just come out by myself. I didn’t ask for your help. Besides, what do you care anyway? You didn’t even say hi to me—” Brett stopped abruptly.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy had raised an eyebrow to his rant. “Are <em>you</em> yelling at <em>me</em> now? Might I remind you, Mr. Yang, that you were the one who skipped lessons on Monday, along with all of my theory classes this week. So, between the two of us, I’m pretty sure that I’m the one who should be angry—”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s because you were being weird!”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy’s lips lifted at one corner then quickly flattened again. “Me?” he asked innocently. “What do you mean? In what way?</p><p> </p><p>“You—you know,” Brett stuttered, his cheeks turning pink. “That night, you—you—”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, because I kissed you?”</p><p> </p><p>The casualness with which he said this disoriented Brett briefly. “I mean, yeah . . .,” he said, his voice trailing off.</p><p> </p><p>“It was just a kiss,” said Eddy. He rose to his feet and stretched out his limbs with a relaxed carelessness. “Is that such a big deal?”</p><p> </p><p>Wasn’t it though, Brett wondered, discomfited. He peered up at Eddy questioningly. “But why did you do it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Do I need a reason? You’ve never been kissed?”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course I have!” Brett retorted quickly.</p><p> </p><p>“Then you know. It just happens sometimes,” said Eddy with a nonchalant shrug. “Between adults, anyway. It doesn’t have to mean anything.   I didn’t mean anything by it.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett frowned. “So you just—” he paused here as confused thoughts swirled in his head. On the one hand, Eddy’s answer was intuitively dissatisfying—wrong, even, especially for a professor. But on the other hand, to press seemed emphatically uncool, childish, like he cared too much. Eddy wasn’t wrong. People make out, hook up, and forget about it all the time. . . .</p><p> </p><p>“I could kiss you now, for example.”</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>Without responding and without warning, Eddy leaned down and pressed his lips lightly against Brett’s cool forehead. He watched with concealed amusement as Brett’s small, dark eyes widened, then blinked rapidly behind the thick round lenses as he tried to process the surprise kiss.</p><p> </p><p>Finally, after his face had run through various shades of red, the younger boy blurted, “Stop. You shouldn’t. K-kiss me, that is.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t like it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Th-that’s not the point—it’s not right. You’re my professor! And-and-and a guy. And I don’t believe in romance or relationships, or whatever! And I just want things to go back to the way they were. You know, back to normal.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy contemplated this. It was a bit hypocritical, he thought, that Brett would protest these things, when he’d clearly slept his way into this school with Rogers, who used to be a professor and who was obviously a man. How Brett could feign such innocence—cute as it was—was beyond him.</p><p> </p><p>But out loud, he said, “Okay.”</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” repeated Eddy agreeably, ignoring Brett’s look of surprise. “I don’t think I said anything about romance or relationships, but I respect that. I won’t kiss you anymore. In exchange, I expect to see you at lessons and in all my classes. Is that fair?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett parted his lips but no words came out. He frowned again. That somehow <em>didn’t</em> seem fair, come to think of it—as if Eddy had twisted his way into gaining the upper hand. Eddy smiled enigmatically, and motioned for him to get up. “We have to go back now. You can’t get out of orchestra through self-harm.”</p><p> </p><p>“It was an accident though . . .”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy ignored him. “I’m docking points if you sit there any longer,” he said, already starting to walk away. Brett stumbled after him, a trifle annoyed. Annoyed, but that was better than the anxiety and confusion that had plagued him for the past few days. The familiarity of their banter steadied him; he had reached solid ground again.</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps some things <em>could</em> be forgotten, with time. At least Eddy was clearly fine with putting it behind them. The thought was comforting. Or should have been. Brett felt a tiny pang in his heart, which was inexplicable, and which he quickly suppressed.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Eddy had never liked downturn Manhattan. Wall Street, in particular, felt dirty and crowded to him, brimming with a strange mix of lost tourists, haggard banker bros, and political protestors. The historic buildings, which might have been pretty, were always hidden behind construction scaffolding, and the narrow sidewalks were always drowning in puddles of unidentifiable, murky water. He could never understand why Juilliard’s liked to have its annual gala here.</p><p> </p><p>He would much rather be in his apartment listening to classical records and drinking a glass of wine, than out here with people he barely knew and didn’t want to talk to.</p><p> </p><p>“You really need to work on your social anxiety,” said Belle, looking radiant and very much in her element. Eddy wasn’t sure how they could be related, sometimes.</p><p> </p><p>The good thing about Cipriani’s was that it was large and dark, so it was easy for a person to retreat into a corner and hide, if he wanted to. In a scurrilous sort of way, Eddy abandoned Belle and did just that. And it just so happened that in the dark corner he claimed, he spotted one Brett Yang.</p><p> </p><p>After overcoming his initial surprise, Eddy observed the boy unobtrusively for a few moments. He had ditched his usual hoodie and baggy jeans for a well-cut tux that looked expensive even in the dim lighting. The trousers, in particular, revealed to Eddy for the first time that Brett had a pair of slender, long legs, which he wouldn’t have expected, and which he rather admired . . . .</p><p> </p><p>Tux aside though, Brett looked more or less his usual self. Instead of talking to anyone, he appeared to be optimizing his access to the attendants bearing trays of hors d’oeuvres, grabbing a piece whenever they passed him by and stuffing it into his soft, pudgy cheeks. Eddy laughed quietly to himself and walked over, tapping Brett on the shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>Brett jumped a little when he saw it was Eddy, almost choking on his crab cake. Eddy grimaced as he watched Brett wash it down with a large gulp of wine. First, the combination seemed unpleasant, and second, “Are you old enough to drink?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett looked around nervously, then said, “In Australia, I would be.” He wore a small grin as he spoke, no doubt pleased with his own cleverness. “What are you doing here anyway?”</p><p> </p><p>“All faculty were invited. The better question, I think, is what are you doing here? I seem to recall only some students were invited . . . Ah, you’re here with Rogers, perhaps?” It hurt Eddy just slightly to say that, but he hid it well.</p><p> </p><p>Brett tilted his head in confusion. “Rogers? Oh, Ted? Uh . . . . I guess so. I’m really here with my moth—oh wait, fried scallops! That’s what I’ve been waiting for. Flag him!”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy didn’t recall flagging waiters down for fried scallops being part of his job description, but there it was. With a long-suffering sigh, he motioned the attendant over and handed a piece to Brett. Who smiled at him rather sweetly, so he supposed that made up for it.</p><p> </p><p>“If fried scallops were a piece of music, what piece would it be?” Brett mused after he’d made quick work of his own scallop. “Quick, five-four-three—”</p><p> </p><p>What kind of stupid question? But he answered anyway. “La Mer, probably . . .”</p><p> </p><p>“Good one. What about . . .”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Pleasant times always pass quickly. Their mindless back and forth was soon interrupted by a few industry big wigs, who glided over after spotting Eddy. Eddy felt repulsed just seeing them—a part of him wanted to grab Brett by the hand and run. They could walk along the East River, he thought, and look at the stars.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, he smiled politely at the men who inserted themselves between himself and Brett and said good evening.</p><p> </p><p>--<em>So you’re a professor now. How’s that going?</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>--We’re always looking for new talent to sign, you know. Any students you recommend—</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>--Who are you sending to competition? Jordan, no? He’s over there, we should—</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>--And Sumina! You’re sending two, aren't you? Sumina, come here, we should take a photo together . . . </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>*</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Brett found himself at the edge of group. Sumina smiled apologetically at him as she walked past. <em>They just don’t know you yet</em>, she whispered. He motioned for her to go on, gesturing that he didn’t mind.</p><p> </p><p>He could just barely see Eddy, standing at the center of the throng of people that had gathered around him. It had been a few days now since they’d spoken at orchestra. True to his word, Eddy had refrained from physical contact of any kind, and Brett could speak to him again more or less as usual. If there was an undercurrent of tension to their interactions, neither acknowledged it.</p><p> </p><p>Tonight’s Eddy felt a bit different. In his elegant tux, he lost his bland professorial vibe and stood tall and handsome. The sycophantic musings of those around him, and the endless photos for the media, didn’t seem to bother him. His expression remained politely cool, as if he were used to all this, and above it all.</p><p> </p><p>For the first time, watching from afar, Brett felt the distance between himself and Eddy. Of course, he must have known it all along, subconsciously, but it had been so easy to forget. It had been easy to forget that Eddy had better, more promising students than him, when he was alone with Eddy in the practice room as Eddy slowly coached him through the correct fingering, impatient but resigned. And it had been easy to forget that Edward Chen was a shining, world-class soloist, when he performed Bach while staring into straight into Brett’s eyes, as if his performance was for Brett alone.</p><p> </p><p>How did their worlds ever collide, Brett wondered, as he stared at Eddy now.</p><p> </p><p>And how soon before they would grow apart again?</p><p> </p><p>“Would you like another crab cake?” an attendant asked him kindly, proffering her tray.</p><p> </p><p>He shook his head no. He had suddenly lost his appetite.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By the time the media released Eddy, cocktail hour was over and attendants began ushering guests to their seats. Eddy quickly made his way over to Belle but was disconcerted to find that they had been assigned to different tables.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re at table 1. That’s where all the important people are sitting,” she mused. “Well, I guess that makes sense. Good luck.” She floated away before Eddy could ask what she meant.</p><p> </p><p>At table 1 sat an assortment of guests above Eddy’s pay grade, including two or three big donors, a few members of the board, Rogers, and Brett. Eddy felt Brett’s inclusion to be mildly inappropriate—too ostentatious—but who was he to say.</p><p> </p><p>He himself was seated next to an Asian woman in her 40s or 50s. She gave him a warm smile and introduced herself as Grace Lee. Eddy smiled back politely, having read on the program that she was the guest of honor, a managing director at D—bank who’d donated some astronomical sum to Juilliard’s.   Like the truly rich sometimes did, she understated her wealth by wearing a simple ensemble of black dress and pearl necklace. Still, there was a low-key confidence to her demeanor befitting a banking executive. When she smiled, her crinkles at the corners in a way that Eddy found familiar, but couldn’t quite place.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said between small bites of steak. “Good things, from Theodore. We’re old neighbors, Ted and I. I’m pleased to finally meet you in person.”</p><p> </p><p>“Pleasure’s mine,” said Eddy. He continued responding to her small talk after that, but in a distracted sort of way, almost on autopilot. His gaze strayed more often than not to Brett, who sat to her other side. It was odd, he thought, that Brett should sit between Grace and Ted, but perhaps that had just been a fluke.</p><p> </p><p>The boy didn’t say much and looked somewhat morose, compared to earlier in the evening. His eyes remained more or less glued to his phone screen, looking up only to stab some food from his plate or to respond to meaningless comments by Ted, who seemed intent on drawing him out of his silence. Eddy couldn’t suppress a small smile from watching them.  Brett clearly didn't have much to say to Ted.  But more amusingly, he also seemed totally unfazed, or oblivious, to the fact that he was sitting next to one of the school’s biggest sponsors.  How very Brett.</p><p> </p><p>“Is something funny?” asked Grace.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy shook his head no.</p><p> </p><p>“So I wanted to say thank you,” she continued, “for teaching—”</p><p> </p><p>But Eddy’s attention had again been captured by the scene unfolding to her other side. Ted was now thrusting a bowl of olives on Brett. Without thinking, Eddy said, “He doesn’t like olives.”</p><p> </p><p>A strange hush fell over their section of the table. Brett, Grace, and Ted all turned to him, half-confused, half-astonished—Brett, most of all. “How did you know?” he asked, after a brief pause.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy, who would have liked to retract his statement, tried his best to look nonchalant. “You picked them out at tea the other day. I just happened to notice.”</p><p> </p><p>Ted broke out into amused chuckles, dispelling the tension. “I’d heard you were an observant instructor, Eddy, but I didn’t know to this extent. Even I wasn’t aware, though I’ve known Brett here for years. Aren’t you lucky, Brett?”</p><p> </p><p>But shouldn’t you know, Eddy wondered, as conversation at the table resumed and moved on. If you cared about someone, knowing what they liked or disliked was rudimentary, wasn’t it? But he put an end to those thought, having noticed that Grace was observing him with interest.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, I was distracted. You were saying?”</p><p> </p><p>Before Grace could say whatever it was she wanted to say, the MC had returned to the stage to resume the programming of the night. She quieted everyone down and, after a gushing, over-the-top introduction, invited Grace on stage to her give speech as this year’s guest of honor. The audience broke into respectful applause as Grace glided her way through the tables.</p><p> </p><p>Brett unceremoniously scooted into her vacant seat and leaned close to Eddy. “I’ve been thinking,” he whispered conspiratorially, “I’d like to try out a competition too.” Eddy looked at him in surprise—that was the last thing he’d expect from Brett Yang. “I mean not soon, obviously, but maybe next semester. What do you think?”</p><p> </p><p>While he waited for Eddy’s response, Brett also casually helped himself to a piece of steak from Grace’s plate. Eddy’s eyes widened in horror. “Did you just—what are you doing—you can’t just eat from her plate!”</p><p> </p><p>Brett blinked at him innocently as he swallowed the bite. “Why not? She won’t mind. She's not gonna eat it.”</p><p> </p><p>“How do you know that?”</p><p> </p><p>“I mean, she’s my mom, so . . .”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure, but—wait. She’s your <em>what</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Eddy was still in a daze at the end of the night, as he stood on the front steps of Cipriani’s. How he managed to make it through the rest of dinner without making a fool himself (a bigger fool, that is) was beyond him.</p><p> </p><p>Brett, who was waiting for his mother to finish her conversation with some other person of importance, waved a hand in Eddy’s face to get his attention. “Hell—o? I’ll see you Monday? And you’ll give some thought to what I said about competition?”</p><p> </p><p>He had draped his oversized scarf over himself again, and his face looked even tinier than usual, half-hidden behind the thick folds. Eddy could just barely make out his lips as they spoke. Enticing lips he had taken the liberty of kissing. Recalling that now, Eddy had a half a mind to slap himself. Why, oh why, had he done that? Why had he stupidly let himself assume things—project such unseemly thoughts on what turned out to be a perfectly normal, innocent boy. His student, no less, <em>entrusted </em>to him, and now corrupted, all because he had irrationally thought . . .</p><p> </p><p>Brett was still staring at him expectantly. His eyes held that glitter of determination that Eddy remembered seeing before, when he had asked Eddy to continue teaching him. Those eyes had always an irresistible pull on Eddy, a window into Brett’s fearless soul.   Eddy smiled ironically to himself, resigned. It was too late. Regardless of whose son Brett was, he already had a firm grip over Eddy, even if he didn’t know it himself.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy reached over and pat Brett lightly on the head, relishing the feel of his soft hair. “We can discuss. I’ll see you Monday.” Monday, any day, forever. Maybe Brett heard the unspoken promise in his voice; his ivory cheeks turned a pale pink and he submerged deeper into his scarf. But when he later walked away with his mother, he turned back surreptitiously once or twice, which was enough to make Eddy smile.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p>Belle was humming a breezy tune in the car when Eddy interrupted to ask if she knew the truth about Brett’s identity.</p><p> </p><p>“Sure,” she said. “Didn’t you?”</p><p> </p><p>“But you were the one that said he and Rogers had a thing!”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, that was just a guess. It was quickly corrected. Didn’t the dean talk to you about him? Besides, you remember we met up with his cousin? She’s from like one of the richest families from Taiwan, so of course he isn’t just some rich old man’s boy toy. Didn’t I tell you?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>No</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hmm. Could’ve sworn I did. Well, anyway, you haven’t done anything to him, have you? Abused him?”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy rolled his eyes impatiently. “Of course I haven’t <em>abused</em> him.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s good.”</p><p> </p><p>A short pause.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy asked, somewhat hesitantly, “So eighteen’s legal in the U.S., right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Come again now?”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>As their car zipped uptown, Grace watched her son from the corner of her eye with some amusement. In contrast to his usual spaced out look, he appeared to be deep in thought; she couldn’t help prodding him a little.</p><p> </p><p>“So, Professor Chen, huh?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett jumped a little in his seat and glanced at his mother warily. “What about him?”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s very young.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>“And not bad looking.”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh . . . I wouldn’t know.”</p><p> </p><p>“Seems better than the charlatan teachers we got you before.”</p><p> </p><p>“That part’s true.”</p><p> </p><p>And stares at you a lot, Grace wanted to say, but didn’t. She was once young too, and could hazard a guess as to what those looks meant. And she had caught the faint blush on her son’s cheek as they walked to the car. She looked over at her baby—when had he grown up and when will he slip away from her?—and wondered what to do.</p><p> </p><p>Brett, though, appeared to be thinking of other things. “You’re going to Hong Kong again, next week?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. Why?” Will he be inviting the young professor over? Should she ask Ted to keep an eye over them?</p><p> </p><p>“Good. Then I’ll have the house to myself. I need to practice,” he declared, looking very serious.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah?”</p><p> </p><p>“I've decided that I don’t like being last, after all. I need to catch up.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah.” Her son’s unexpected look of determination made Grace want to laugh a little, though she held it back for fear of injuring his pride.</p><p> </p><p>She supposed, on balance, that the professor appeared to be doing more good than harm. She would wait and see, for now.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Surprise bonus chapter for the weekend lol. </p><p>Ok, but can someone write a fic about (1) Eddy being very very very very very shy when they first meet, or (2) the fact that they share the same green jacket?  Plz. Anyone.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Brett pretended to be studying the score, but could just see Eddy at the edge of his peripheral vision. Eddy was standing on the other side of the room, keeping a respectful distance. He carried himself with an amiable aloofness that was new, or new to Brett.</p><p> </p><p>“I think you’re almost there,” he was saying. “Just a few small things to tweak, like . . .” When had his critiques ever been this gentle? Maybe with other students—true thoughts glossed over by a film of phony politeness—but not with <em>him</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Brett recalled the surprise on Eddy’s face at the dinner when he revealed that Grace was his mother. Not that he was hiding it; he’d always just assumed that Eddy knew. Had he known otherwise—that is, had he known that Eddy would become just like everyone else upon learning Brett’s identity—he wouldn’t have said anything.</p><p> </p><p>“Mr. Yang, are you listening?”</p><p> </p><p>Mr. Yang? Brett’s expression retreated into a displeased deadpan. “Are you coming to watch my recital?”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy responded with an exasperated <em>obviously</em>. “Now listen, about your bowing, what you could try over the next few days is”—he demonstrated the gesture in the air. “Why don’t you give it a try?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett tried, and botched it, which may or may not have been on purpose. Historically, Eddy probably would have stalked over impatiently, grabbed Brett by the arm, and corrected him. And Brett, out of embarrassment and embarrassment only, might have experienced a slight increase in his heart rate.</p><p> </p><p>Today, though, Eddy responded with faint grimace and moved on. Brett’s lips pressed into a thin line of irrational frustration.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Eddy watched Brett’s slumped figure retreat down the hall until it disappeared from view, then sat down at his desk and drummed his fingers on his desk with a small smile. Brett’s little expressions, which utterly lacked in subtlety, were amusing and impinged somewhat on his self-control. He wondered how much longer it would take before Brett could be honest with himself, and with Eddy.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>On the actual afternoon of the recital, Brett succumbed to a case of last minute jitters, which was unusual. It had been all right in the morning, but as he approached the auditorium, he was seized by a sudden anxiety, a premonition that he might forget all the notes halfway through and freeze on stage like a fool. His anxiety grew stronger as he watched his peers walk into the building with what appeared to be great confidence. Pale and nauseous, he lingered outside under a limpid sky that darkened into a bleak, purple dusk.</p><p> </p><p>He was thinking about whether it was too late to feign illness when he spotted Hyung, walking and laughing with a group of friends. He observed them enviously; how carefree they looked. The older boy gave him a friendly wave and trotted over. “What are you doing, standing out here by yourself?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett, after a moment of hesitation, admitted sheepishly that he was gearing up to perform.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, sounds fun. Can I come watch? We had our recital last week. It wasn’t so bad.”</p><p> </p><p>“Probably because you’re good,” Brett said glumly.</p><p> </p><p>“Not that good. I put you to sleep once, remember?” Hyung asked with an amused grin.</p><p> </p><p>Brett didn’t remember right away, though it slowly came back to him that he may have fallen asleep to some nice cello music at that one workshop long ago. Hyung’s chuckle preempted the apology at the tip of his tongue. “I only mention it because most of your audience will be the same—either spaced out or too worried about their own performance to pay any attention to you. So I wouldn’t be too worried.”</p><p> </p><p>“I guess.” Still, Brett waffled. This wasn’t just any old performance before strangers, after all.</p><p> </p><p>Hyung looked poised to say more, but just then, both he and Brett saw one Professor Chen walking briskly their way. Running late himself, the professor was non-too-pleased to see his student still loitering outside.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re up first, Brett Yang. What are you doing out here? Should be warming up already.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett shriveled a tad beneath Eddy’s cold glare. “But I’m nervous,” he said in a tiny voice. “What if I forget everything halfway through?”</p><p> </p><p>“Then you’ll have met expectations.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey!”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s true. No one’s expecting you to be the next Perlman or anything, so better to just get it over with.” Eddy placed a hand on Brett’s back and started steering him towards the building while ignoring Hyung entirely. “Besides, if you stay out here and let your hands freeze, you’ll definitely sound like shit.” As he said this, he grabbed Brett’s hand and pressed it lightly. “See? They’re already cold. Hurry up and go inside.”</p><p> </p><p>The hand holding lasted only a split second, but somehow—perhaps the firmness of Eddy’s grip, or the brief flare of warmth—somehow, it was just enough to steady Brett’s erratic, nervous breaths.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you think I’ll be okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“Did I not suffer through the last two months with you? Or don’t you trust me?” Eddy gave him a wry smile. “You’ll be fine.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>And of course, he was fine, just as Eddy knew he would be. His first phrase swelled sweetly into the second, which skipped and hopped over several chords into the third. There was not a trace of nerves, nothing to indicate that those small hands had been trembling just minutes before.</p><p> </p><p>Unlike the performance at the Morgan, there were no mistakes this time. It was as Mozart intended the piece to sound, but mixed with a little bit of Brett Yang—a cheeky smile here and there, with a sublime undercurrent of joy.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy watched him unblinkingly, enchanted, bewitched, hopeless. Like a silly schoolboy, his heart skipped a beat when Brett happened to look his way and smile.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Brett took his seat in the audience with profound relief. The residual adrenaline pumping through his veins sustained a happy sparkle in his eye, and he settled back to watch his peers in a state of relaxation.</p><p> </p><p>Yet, the more he heard, the more his mood deflated. Of course, he had known that his peers were good, but he was somehow still surprised by how much harder their repertoire was, and how much more skillfully they played. Even Sophie, who was more a pianist than a violinist, exceeded him by leaps and bounds.</p><p> </p><p>And he’d asked Eddy if he could go to competition next semester. How naïve had he been? The light in his eye dimmed and he settled back in his seat with a soft sigh.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>At the post-recital celebration, Brett stood near the bar, nursing a third glass of wine. A sense of excitement and relief pervaded the bright, warm room as students and professors mingled and exchanged compliments. Perhaps only Brett felt morose about the whole thing, unable to dislodge a dull ache in his heart.</p><p> </p><p>It was so stupid. He’d never even cared about any of this before. Playing violin was just something to fill the time; he wasn’t supposed to feel <em>serious</em> about it. If not for Eddy Chen—he stopped himself there.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy was standing far away again, and again surrounded by an impenetrable barrier of people: professors and his better students. Other than a brief exchange after the recital, Brett hadn’t been able to get a word in edgewise. He didn’t even know what Eddy thought of his playing, whether he was embarrassed or proud.</p><p> </p><p>Sophie and Hyung were saying something (to each other? to him?), but he could barely follow. He was too busy watching Eddy, smiling as he allowed a student to a snap a selfie with him. That wasn’t fair, thought Brett. Eddy dispenses smiles so easily to other people, and is only ever impatient with him.</p><p> </p><p>“I think you’ve had too much to drink,” said Sophie, sounding concerned. “Maybe we should go out of some air?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett shook his head, his attention still focused on Eddy. The professor finally glanced towards him and gave him a small wave, before turning and making his way towards the exit.</p><p> </p><p>A wave of rash courage crested within Brett, as sometimes happens at that certain stage of intoxication. Ignoring Sophie’s gasp of surprise, he bolted after Eddy.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Outside, Eddy walked a few paces and paused to take a breath of cold, fresh air, welcoming the still darkness. He’d used the last of his energy chatting up the Dean’s wife and was ready to collapse in bed.</p><p> </p><p>The silence was interrupted by an unexpected flurry of footsteps from behind. Surprised, he turned around just in time to catch Brett as the boy tumbled headlong in his arms.</p><p> </p><p>“Oof. Br—Mr. Yang? What are you doing?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett peered up at him, with a carmine flush to his cheeks and wearing an annoyed pout. “I don’t like it when you call me that.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy stared at him for a moment, saying nothing. Then, his lips curved slowly into a smile. He drew the small bundle of warmth closer and whispered, “And what should I call you then?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I always thought the cutest, most genuine Breddy moment was when Brett got nervous during the Tschaik stream and Eddy reached out and grabbed his wrist.  </p><p>Also, Brett's new haircut is D: but it was cute when he reached over Eddy's arm to play the piano hehehe</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“And what should I call you then?”</p><p> </p><p>There it was again, that low whisper in his ear, causing a shiver to run down his spine. His skin tingled where Eddy held him. The world suddenly fell very quiet; all Brett could hear was the blood rushing through his ears.</p><p> </p><p>Only the barest grasp on sobriety held him back, that smallest voice of reason at the back of his brain, cautioning him to step away, to save himself from the quicksand of Eddy’s warm hold which, he was sure Eddy would say, didn’t mean anything anyway.</p><p> </p><p>“Just Brett,” he said, more shakily than he’d liked, and took two steps back. Eddy didn’t stop him. “I mean, I just didn’t want things to change because of who I am. Or who my mom is. That’s all.”</p><p> </p><p>His voice sounded unconvincing even to his own ears. He heard Eddy laugh softly and ask if that was what he’d chased him out here to say. Yeah, said Brett adamantly. No other reason.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, since you’re here, I might as well say what I wanted to say. Good job today. For what it’s worth, you certainly exceeded my expectations. I hadn’t thought it possible . . . well, let’s just say that I was impressed. Congrats.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett didn’t quite know how to respond to Eddy’s sudden sincerity. Was this really the Eddy Chen he knew? He stared at the young professor with wide eyes, not quite sure. Eddy chuckled again and said that he meant it. “But it’s getting late now, so if there’s nothing else, you should head home.” He reached over and ruffled Brett’s hair—his new favorite move, apparently, as if Brett were a child.</p><p> </p><p>Brett batted his hand away, traces of petulance beginning to reappear on his face. “It’s not even nine,” he mumbled. “Besides, I’m an adult now…”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy eyed him with a glimmer of amusement. “Fine, then whatever you want to do. Anyway, it’s past <em>my </em>bed time. Good night Brett.” With a backhanded wave, he’d turned and begun to walk away.</p><p> </p><p>Watching Eddy’s figure retreat into the darkness, Brett felt an inexplicable wave of dissatisfaction wash over him. He wasn’t sure how he’d wanted the night to end, but this, somehow, wasn’t it. He hesitated for a few seconds, then thought <em>fuck it</em>, and ran after Eddy for the second time that night.</p><p> </p><p>“Wait.” He reached out grabbed a hold of Eddy’s coat. “I don’t want to go home yet . . .”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy paused and turned back, his hard eyes glinting in the dark. Brett looked away evasively, self-conscious. He asked in a barely audible voice, “Can’t I go with you?”</p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Eddy’s apartment was exactly as Brett had pictured it, a sizeable one-bedroom near campus colored grey and white. Other than his violin and the music books stacked neatly on the shelves, the place could have been a hospital ward. Though perhaps hospital wards were more exciting.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, here you are,” Eddy remarked, a sardonic lilt to his voice. “What do you think?”</p><p> </p><p>Here he was indeed, perched stiffly on the edge of Eddy’s grey couch, holding a glass of juice that Eddy had poured him and that he didn’t really want. A nervous energy quivered in the air—a build-up of anticipation before the final act.</p><p>                                                                                                                   </p><p>Brett’s eyes flickered around the room, roaming everywhere except Eddy, who sat very nonchalantly at the other end of the couch. He had shed his suit jacket and thrown off his tie. Somehow, he managed to look elegantly relaxed in his slightly crumpled, day-old button-up. Maybe because he had loosened one or two buttons, and Brett could just see the base of his neck.</p><p> </p><p>Stop that, Brett admonished himself. Out loud, he said, “Could use some decor.”</p><p> </p><p>“Nah, too much work. It’s just temporary housing. Anyway,” Eddy yawned, “now that you’ve satisfied your curiosity, perhaps you’re ready to go?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett faintly furrowed his brows. Of course, a small part of him did want to leave, escape and leave things as they were, but then again, he hadn’t come here to drink a glass of juice. Which Eddy must know, but . . . but Eddy sprawled quietly on his end of the couch with that cool if tired smile. Brett felt a strong urge to kick him.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, you haven’t shown me around yet.”</p><p> </p><p>“Show you around?” Eddy gave him a pointed, sidelong glance. Which was fair—the place was so small.</p><p> </p><p>“Ok, but . . . Don’t you have anything . . . ” Brett looked around again curiously, his eyes landing on a sheaf of papers lying on the coffee table. Eddy must have caught his look; he reached over and snatched the pages up before Brett could. Brett gave him a mournful stare. “Isn’t that just your composition from before? Why can’t I look it?”</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve already seen it, so.”</p><p> </p><p>“But you added to it. It’s much longer now.” Forgetting his nervousness for one moment, he scampered across the invisible barrier of the middle seat and poked his head near Eddy to glimpse at the music. Eddy yielded to him with a subdued sigh, repositioning himself so that Brett could better see.</p><p> </p><p>It was only after a few seconds of reading that Brett realized how close they were sitting—that somehow, by accident and not design (of course), he had just about scooted himself into Eddy’s lap, that Eddy was looking down at him with gentle amusement and had wrapped his arm gingerly around Brett’s waist, to protect him from tumbling off the couch.</p><p> </p><p>“And what do you think of the additions?” Eddy was asking, as if Brett could still focus on the music. He peered up into Eddy’s eyes and saw his own reflection. The color rose in his cheeks.  </p><p> </p><p>Eddy, in catching his look, leaned back and lengthened the distance between them. Just by a few centimeters, but already too far, Brett thought. “You shouldn’t look at me like that,” Eddy said quietly, with a delicious hint of warning. “We had an agreement, after all, that I wouldn’t touch you . . .”</p><p> </p><p>And Brett never did like being told what to do. The last thread of reason snapped. He rose to his knees and leaned forward, draping his arms around Eddy’s neck. “But what if I don’t want that anymore?” he whispered, still staring into the other’s eyes. “What would you do then?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett heard a sharp, ragged inhale and smirked.</p><p> </p><p>Of course, it was a short-lived gloat. Eddy pulled him in by where he still held him by the waist so that their bodies tumbled together, and kissed him hard on the mouth.</p><p> </p><p>Brett froze for a second. Despite everything—despite that this had all been inevitable from the minute he’d made up his mind to come here—he was somehow still unprepared. What if he was doing it wrong, he wondered. What if his kiss was boring? What if—</p><p> </p><p>Eddy pulled back just slightly, creating a sliver of space between them. “Stop thinking,” he ordered, his dark eyes glittering with desire. And Brett did stop thinking, because Eddy had recaptured his lips with an almost violent yearning. Their warm breaths mingled in the cold air as Eddy broke through his defenses, and Brett’s arms hung limply around Eddy’s neck as he nestled against Eddy’s hard body, losing himself in the burning kisses—now gentle, now ardent.</p><p> </p><p>“W-Wait,” he tried to say at some point, though it came out with breathless incoherence. “P-professor…”</p><p> </p><p>“Professor?” Eddy lips curved into a suggestive grin. Brett felt all the blood rush to his cheeks and tried to hide his face against Eddy’s chest. Eddy wasn’t done with him though. With a gentle forcefulness, he lowered Brett onto the couch. Brett made a soft moan of protest, which quickly transformed into moans of another kind as Eddy sucked lightly on his lower lip, then insistently parted his lips. Brett’s small hands pushed lightly against Eddy’s chest—a futile defense, ineffective as a kitten’s soft paws—even as he kissed Eddy back. The world faded for Brett; there was just Eddy now, and his fervent kisses that stole Brett’s breath away.</p><p> </p><p>Quite literally.</p><p> </p><p>As moments passed, Brett found that he <em>couldn’t</em> think anymore, that the room had begun to spin, and he felt as if he were drowning, or suffocating. The kitten paws prodded more insistently against Eddy now until, finally, Eddy reluctantly released Brett’s lips. With a loud gasp, Brett gulped in the air that he desperately needed.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy watched him for a moment, then let out a short, low laugh. “Wow. Did you actually forget to breathe?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett shot him a vicious look after catching his breath. Eddy smiled fondly as he sat back up and readjusted his shirt, now suggestively wrinkled. “And here I thought you would be a master seducer, infiltrating my apartment in the night.”</p><p> </p><p>With a huff, Brett propped himself up too and swung one leg over Eddy’s lap so that he was now straddling him. “Maybe I am,” he insisted, putting on his best come-hither look, which was more cute than seductive.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy reached up and stroked his hair, brushing it back into place with his fingers. Brett’s scalp tingled pleasantly. He leaned towards Eddy again, but was stopped just before their lips met. “I think that’s enough for tonight,” Eddy whispered, though he dropped a light kiss on the tip of Brett’s nose. “I’ll drive you home?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett frowned and shook his head. How could Eddy just be done with him? That wasn’t playing fair. He buried his face against Eddy’s neck like a sulky child. “Don’t wanna go home.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy sighed, but wrapped his arms around the smaller boy anyway. It was hard to say no to this.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>So in the end, Brett was allowed to stay, but no more kissing said Eddy, because Eddy wasn’t sure how much restraint he had left, not when Brett was sitting in his lap, staring at him with those flushed cheeks and bruised lips, innocent eyes peeking through tousled hair. And then later, after Eddy had prodded him into taking a shower, he came out swaddled in a set of Eddy’s pajamas that was much too large and that kept slipping off his shoulder, which on the one hand, was all very adorable, but on the other, Eddy had half a mind to tear those clothes off and press kisses all over that bare stretch of pale skin—</p><p> </p><p>Anyway.</p><p> </p><p>By the time Eddy stepped out of his shower, Brett had already burrowed into a corner of the couch and dozed off, his face half hidden in the oversized pajama top. Eddy removed his glasses, gently scooped him up from the couch and carried him to the bed, where he tucked him securely under the covers.</p><p> </p><p>Under the white moonlight streaming through the blinds, Brett again looked like a resting angel, and not the devil that tormented Eddy’s soul.</p><p> </p><p>Had he really won himself Brett Yang? There was a feeling of unreality to it. He kneeled besides the bed to clasp one of Brett’s hands that had escaped the covers, and pressed it lightly to his cheek.</p><p> </p><p>He wondered, was it greedy of him to not want to let go?</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>You would not believe how long it took to write this -- utter trash at writing the real romance. SORRY.</p><p>Anyway, their new vids are giving me life. They look so happy!! Also I was really excited when Eddy talked about teaching and was like man I would totally read a fic about that, and then realized I was writing one lol. But what I actually want to read is Eddy the introverted robot teaching Brett the chatty party boy . . .</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Brett walked into early morning music history class with a bounce to his step that raised a few brows. He then raised a few more by unzipping his large puffer to reveal a strange ensemble of oversized flannel shirt and tuxedo bottoms.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s like you’re taking the walk of shame, but proud of it,” Jordan remarked as Brett slid into the seat between his and Sophie’s.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re definitely wearing your pants from yesterday and some other dude’s shirt, so…”</p><p> </p><p>“Could be my shirt.”</p><p> </p><p>“It is Chen’s no?” Sophie interjected, incisive as ever. Brett choked on a bite of bagel and glanced at her in alarm. She remained calm. “It is not rocket science. You ran after him last night—I saw with my very own eyes, ergo—”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re making this sound very dramatic—”</p><p> </p><p>“Do not interrupt. Ergo, you hooked up.”</p><p> </p><p>“Did not,” Brett shot back.</p><p> </p><p>“No? Then you made out.”</p><p> </p><p>“Can’t say—”</p><p> </p><p>“There is a hickey on your neck.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett looked down nervously but, alas, could not see his own neck. Sophie smirked. “I am joking. Chen isn’t stupid. But obviously, you didn’t sit around discussing music theory. Now, tell us everything.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett turned back to his bagel. Didn’t know you were all such gossips, he murmured under his breath. In any case, he was saved from answering by the appearance of old Professor Thomas, who promptly shut down all conversation with his droning lecture.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>They definitely didn’t hook up. Brett had woken up alone in Eddy’s bed, fully clothed, which, after he recovered from his initial confusion, had been just a tad disappointing, not that Brett would admit it if asked. He spent a few minutes rolling around the bed, half shy and half giddy (making sure to hide his smiling, red face under the covers on the off chance that he might be observed), before tiptoeing outside.</p><p> </p><p>The living room was dimly lit by faint winter morning light percolating through the windows. Eddy was still sleeping on the couch, hugging a thick blanket with his body curled up in a defensive, fetal position. Sans his piercing stare and his semi-permanent look of contempt, his slumbering face appeared unnaturally young and vulnerable. Endearing, almost, like any other twenty-two year old who hadn’t yet totally grown up. Brett crouched beside him and studied this rare visage for a few quiet moments.</p><p> </p><p>He wasn’t that good looking, Brett mused, above average at best, and has strong personality defects, and a bad temper, and is always pointing out the things that Brett does wrong. Definitely not what Brett was looking for—not that Brett was looking for anything, to be clear.</p><p> </p><p>On the other hand, he was a good kisser. Brett’s gaze drifted subconsciously to Eddy’s lips; his cheeks heated again at the memories of the previous night.</p><p> </p><p>A tuft of hair fell over Eddy’s face as he shifted in his sleep. Brett smiled and gingerly brushed it back in place. Just as he was retracting his fingers, Eddy’s arm reached out and grabbed hold of them. His eyes opened slowly, still fogged with sleep, and peered at Brett.</p><p> </p><p>“Good morning,” he said, in a low voice that carried a drowsy slur. It was oddly cute. Brett stuttered his own <em>good morning, </em>before pulling back his hand and scampering away, his heart pounding in his chest, as if he’d done something suspicious.</p><p> </p><p>Later, after Brett openly stole a shirt from Eddy’s closet (to which Eddy raised a brow but said nothing) and after Eddy lost his sleepy, childlike look, they sat at Eddy’s small dining table and sipped at some coffee. Or Eddy did, anyway. Brett tried some, made a face, and left it untouched.</p><p> </p><p>“If you don’t like coffee yet, it means you haven’t been worked hard enough,” Eddy commented.</p><p> </p><p>Brett grinned impishly. “Given how much money I have, I can safely say I never will be.”</p><p> </p><p>“Trust you to be proud about that.” Eddy rolled his eyes, but the corner of his lip curled affectionately.</p><p> </p><p>They didn’t talk about the kissing—what it meant or didn’t mean.</p><p> </p><p>At a quarter to ten, Eddy prodded Brett and asked if he shouldn’t be heading off to class. He should be, but after he slipped on his coat and his shoes, he dawdled, shuffling from one leg to the other and peering up at Eddy through his lashes, until finally, Eddy gave in, backed him against the door, and kissed him. Perhaps it was meant as a peck, but when Brett gently slipped his arms around Eddy and innocently parted his lips, Eddy couldn’t seem to resist kissing him harder, until he was breathless and woozy.</p><p> </p><p>“You were waiting for this?” Eddy asked, the desire in his eyes blending with amusement.</p><p> </p><p>“Nuh-uh,” Brett retorted haughtily, though the effect was undercut by the unevenness of his breath. “I just wasn’t ready to face the cold. But now I am.” He cleared his throat and said, “Bye . . . Professor Chen,” with a calculating look in small, round eyes.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy snorted—as if he couldn’t see through Brett’s little mind tricks. “Eddy.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett’s face lit up with a smile. Even better than what he’d hoped for. “K. Bye, Eddy.” He walked out with a skip to his step. On the threshold of Eddy’s apartment, he thought about asking when they might see each other again, but decided against it. Too clingy, very uncool.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The cafeteria was emptier than usual, it being the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and Brett, Sophie, and Jordan were able to find much-coveted window seats. The air was both quiet and festive as everyone readied themselves for the long weekend and the start of the holiday season.</p><p> </p><p>“So, what is going on?” asked Sophie.</p><p> </p><p>Brett glanced cautiously at Jordan, but found that he was, as usual, slightly stoned and digging into his pizza with undivided attention.</p><p> </p><p>“Nothing. We just hung out.”</p><p> </p><p>“ Hung out’ is the new code for Netflix and chill?”</p><p> </p><p>“We <em>didn’t</em>,” Brett whined. “Anyway, it’s not a big deal. We just had a bit of fun, that’s all. Didn’t mean anything.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay.” Brett didn’t like the expression on Sophie’s face, which indicated a certain amount of disbelief.</p><p> </p><p>“It’ll be fine,” he insisted, beginning to grow tired of the conversation.</p><p> </p><p>He glanced down at his phone and saw that it was already close to one. Three hours had passed since he’d left Eddy’s apartment. Just Eddy, now. He smiled to himself, then felt self-conscious about smiling. What was Eddy doing, he wondered, and would he have to wait until Monday to see him again? But why was he wondering this? It had only been three hours. Bad Brett.</p><p> </p><p>He forced himself to think about other things. “You guys around for Thanksgiving?”</p><p> </p><p>Sophie responded that she would be visiting family friends in Maryland.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll be here. Have to practice for the competition,” Jordan muttered gloomily. “Chen’s making me come in on Saturday. Also he just texted me a billion things I need to work on.” He brightened suddenly as he thought of something. “But Brett, now that you guys are a thing, maybe if you distract him for the weekend with some hot, steamy kisses, he’ll leave me alone.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett kicked him under the table. “We’re not a ‘thing.’ And no.”</p><p> </p><p>Jordan groaned in pain. “If you say so. But in my experience, when you start wearing the other person’s clothing, it’s a sign—”</p><p> </p><p>Brett kicked him again.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>They parted ways after lunch and Brett, faced with no plans for the afternoon, decided to walk home. Without thinking much, his feet carried him to Eddy’s apartment building, where he stood outside for awhile staring at the door, until his nose grew red and frosty, at which point he shook himself out of it and began again on his homeward trek.</p><p> </p><p>He walked across the park, which was less scenic than usual. The trees were barren, the fountains were off, and the paths were drearily empty save for a few, lonely pedestrians like Brett. The city was always like this around Thanksgiving, quieting down as people flew home or holed up with their families, and it always left Brett feeling strangely desolate.</p><p> </p><p>For as long as he could remember, he’d always spent his Thanksgivings alone. His mother was always busy around this time, since the Asian markets didn’t close. And his friends, who were usually all too eager to escape home, had no choice but to spend time with their own families. He’d been a bit sad about it in the beginning, but then slowly resigned himself to fate. Thanksgiving was just one day—he’d survive on his own.</p><p> </p><p>By the time he made it back, the skies had already begun to darken. He grabbed some snacks, changed into his pajama pants, and sank into his warm bed, readying himself for a long, relaxing night of online Smash. As he settled back with his controller, he snuggled into Eddy’s large shirt and took a deep breath.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>When you start wearing the other person’s clothing, it’s a sign . . .</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Whatever. Jordan’s full of shit. The shirt was just comfy, that’s all.</p><p> </p><p>At around seven, his phone buzzed, and for one delusional second, he wondered if it was Eddy. It wasn’t—just mom, telling him that she wouldn’t be home until Friday evening and that he should order himself a nice dinner. Of course, it couldn’t have been Eddy, because they hadn’t exchanged numbers. Although apparently, Jordan had Eddy’s number. For some reason. He frowned as he thought about this, then groaned over his own pettiness.</p><p> </p><p>When he went to bed that night, he tossed and turned for a long time. His $2,000 mattress, which he’d never had any issues with before, somehow didn’t hold up to Eddy’s.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Brett woke up late the next day and pottered around aimlessly for the morning, until he received an unexpected dinner invite from cousin Jenny. Though Brett knew she had rented a lavish condo a few streets down, they had never been that close and Brett had avoided her for the most part. Still, some company was better than none on Thanksgiving, so he cleaned himself up and made a prompt appearance at five with an expensive bottle of wine.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy opened the door.</p><p> </p><p>“There you are,” he said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.</p><p> </p><p>But it <em>wasn’t</em> normal, of course. Not normal at all for the subject of your thoughts to pop out of nowhere, in the most unlikely location. Brett could only stare, wide-eyed and speechless. Eddy laughed.</p><p> </p><p>“I was invited too,” he explained. He placed a hand gently on Brett’s lower back and guided him into the condo, where Jenny greeted him with a hug.</p><p> </p><p>“You know my friend, Belle, of course,” said Jenny, “And she was nice enough to bring along Eddy.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s hard to get Eddy to go anywhere,” Belle mused, “but he was excited to come here, for whatever reason.” She glanced suggestively at Brett as her voice trailed off. Brett reddened and shuffled behind Eddy in a subconscious attempt to hide himself.</p><p> </p><p>“Is he excited?” Jenny looked at Eddy quizzically. “I don’t see it.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s just his face, but trust me, he is.”</p><p> </p><p>“I wish you wouldn’t talk about me as if I weren’t here,” Eddy quipped. “Brett, come sit. Dinner’s just about ready.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett followed him wordlessly, still feeling as if this were all a strange dream.</p><p> </p><p>Dinner was a low-key affair of catered turkey and sides. A few other people were there, mostly young women and some of their significant others, all stranded in Manhattan without family. After getting over his initial shock, Brett joined the easy flow of conversation, which grew increasingly friendly and boisterous as everyone downed their alcohol.</p><p> </p><p>Brett’s attention though, was still focused on Eddy. Just over 24 hours since their last meeting, so he couldn’t have changed that much. Still coolly distant when people spoke to him, polite but uninterested. And yet, Brett felt that he was somehow different. It was the way he smiled a little when he turned his gaze to Brett, and the way he leaned over slightly to whisper things of no importance, so that his breath grazed Brett’s ear. Sometimes, his fingertips brushed lightly against Brett’s hand under the table—was that intentional or not? Regardless, it caused a small flutter in Brett’s heart. Which was silly, because they’ve already done so much more than that . . .</p><p> </p><p>At one point, Eddy pushed the mushrooms on his plate to the side and turned to Brett with a childish grimace. “Mushrooms are gross,” he said, so out of character that Brett had to laugh, which drew a few strange looks from everyone else.</p><p> </p><p>After dinner, they migrated to the TV to watch the Westminster dog show. Brett sat on the floor next to Eddy, at first very properly, but then, as he grew tired and drowsy from all the turkey, leaning more and more on his poor professor, who tolerated his weight with a resigned sigh. Of course, had Brett observed carefully, he might have discovered that Eddy didn’t mind at all.</p><p> </p><p>He was jolted out of his lethargy during the showing of a particular beautiful poodle, as a young woman who’d been eyeing him all evening finally gathered her courage to sidle up and make conversation.</p><p> </p><p>“I just moved here and don’t know New York that well,” she explained, with a coy shyness as she took a seat next to him. “If you’re not doing anything this weekend, maybe we could—”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s busy,” Eddy cut in from Brett’s other side.</p><p> </p><p>“He is?” “I am?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, he needs to practice, or I’ll fail him.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey—” Brett began to say, but realized that it was a joke from Eddy’s faint smile.</p><p> </p><p>The girl sighed and muttered under her breath that the cute ones were always taken. Disregarding Brett’s embarrassed protests, she sidled away again.</p><p> </p><p>He scowled at Eddy, who responded with a light shrug.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“So I’ll see you Monday?” asked Brett, as they loitered outside. Belle was already in the taxi, motioning for Eddy to hurry up.</p><p> </p><p>Brett tried to conceal his disappointment from Eddy, but maybe he wasn’t entirely successful, because Eddy said, “Or . . . I can walk you home?”</p><p> </p><p>So they did that, their shadows crossing under the moonlight as they meandered side by side down the peaceful uptown streets.</p><p> </p><p>And then they had ended up in Brett’s bed, which sounds more suggestive than it really was. Rather than passionately tear each other’s clothes off—which was a hard maneuver when you were stuffed with turkey and green bean casserole—they’d somehow settled on playing a round of video games, which Brett didn’t think Eddy had ever done, but---</p><p> </p><p>“Oh look, you just died.”</p><p> </p><p>“What the f—how’d you do that? I thought you’d never played this!”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy smirked. “What can I say? Quick learner.”</p><p> </p><p>He pouted and threw down his controller muttering <em>it’s not fair, </em>which elicited a small chuckle from Eddy.</p><p> </p><p>In the silence that followed, Eddy placed his arm around Brett’s small frame and drew him close. Surprised, Brett tensed briefly, then relaxed and leaned into Eddy’s shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“So, where are your parents?”</p><p> </p><p>“Mom’s in Hong Kong ‘til tomorrow.” He added quietly, “They’re divorced.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah.” Eddy propped his chin on top of Brett’s head and let a moment of silence pass. “You were quiet during our walk.”</p><p> </p><p>“No . . . well, maybe. I guess I was thinking.”</p><p> </p><p>“There are thoughts up in here?” Eddy knocked lightly on Brett’s skull and laughed at his indignant <em>hey</em>. “What were you thinking about?”</p><p> </p><p>About this---about them? That they hardly knew each other two months ago, but were now lying in bed together. What was this? Nothing, Eddy might say, which, though expected, might hurt a little. Or Eddy might say something else, but it wouldn’t matter, because Brett knew he wouldn’t believe those yet unspoken words. Whatever this was, it too shall pass.</p><p> </p><p>“. . . Nothing important.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy placed a finger under Brett’s chin, tilted his face up and pressed a gentle, languorous kiss on Brett’s soft, pink lips. He whispered, “But I’ve been thinking about you, you know.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett didn’t believe him, but felt his defenses crumble just a little at the edges.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>In the end, they were too tired for anything more than slow, lazy kisses as they lay in bed, Brett tucked safely in Eddy’s arms.</p><p> </p><p>“Eddy,” he said drowsily as he curled up closer against the other.</p><p> </p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p> </p><p>“Eddy Chen.”</p><p> </p><p>“What, Brett Yang?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nothing,” he said with a tiny smile, which he hid against Eddy’s chest. Eddy rolled his eyes but tightened his hold.</p><p> </p><p>As he drifted off to sleep, Brett thought that, come what may, at least he wasn’t alone tonight.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For the second time that week, Eddy awakened to the eerie feeling of being scrutinized by a pair of dark, deadpan eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you always wake up this early?” he asked hoarsely.</p><p> </p><p>The eyes crinkled at the corners. Eddy leaned up and planted a sleepy kiss on Brett’s smiling lips, then watched in satisfaction as the other boy fled from the room, his cheeks a beguiling shade of pink. How he could still get so flustered from an innocent kiss remained a mystery. But that was Brett Yang: a study in contradictions, with a capricious innocence that Eddy wanted to preserve . . . or corrupt.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Brett was playing Debussy in the living room, which, for all its expensive marble and priceless vases, had terrible acoustics. Eddy had a half a mind to call halt, except the aggrieved look in Brett’s eyes was too amusing, so he allowed Debussy to continue to bouncing off the walls with unpleasant dissonance until Brett stopped and declared, “I’m hungry. And I didn’t invite you over just so you can make me practice.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m still your professor, and your exam’s in three weeks,” Eddy responded lazily. “Besides, wasn’t it you who wanted to go to competition next semester?”</p><p> </p><p>“But that was only because I—”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy waited.</p><p> </p><p>“No reason,” Brett finished lamely. “That’s not so important anymore.”</p><p> </p><p>“Anyway, you need to practice before you can eat. Hasn’t your mother told you that?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett side-eyed him. “You’ve met her. Do you think she says things like that?"</p><p> </p><p>“Guess you’re lucky, then.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t mean your mom actually . . .” Brett glanced at Eddy questioningly. “Well, I’ve sometimes thought it’d be nice if my mom had more time for me, even if it’s to make me do things I don’t want to.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy peered away with sudden coldness. “The grass is always greener,” he said softly.</p><p> </p><p>Brett set down his violin and crawled up to Eddy on the couch, burrowing his head against Eddy’s shoulder in his best approximation of a puppy, if a puppy had soulless eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“The issue with this piece,” he said, changing the subject, “is that I don’t know what it’s <em>supposed</em> to sound like.”</p><p> </p><p>“So you didn’t listen to the recording I recommended?”</p><p> </p><p>“What I mean is, I think you should play it for me. That would be helpful. Please?” He stretched out the please obnoxiously and fluttered his lashes, which was a bizarre look for his stoic face. Eddy laughed finally, but couldn’t say no.</p><p> </p><p>He hadn’t played the Debussy sonata for years. He remembered liking it at one point, but it was too easy, hardly worth of performing, and had slowly slipped from his mind. Playing it again now, though, he wondered why he’d thought that. Was he delusional, or had the piece taken on a different meaning? In this quiet room, where there was only Brett, sitting in a pool of mid-morning sunlight and drinking in Eddy’s notes with a serene little smile and just a touch of adoration, Eddy heard something new in the melody he played, a subtle romance that was no longer mere imitation, a melancholic yearning that was solely his own.</p><p> </p><p>Had the piece transformed, or had he?</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Unable to resist Brett’s continued wheedling, they ended up at the newly opened Christmas market near Bryant Park, where Brett paused in front of a stand selling apple cider donut, eyeing them hungrily until Eddy caved and bought him a box.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you want one?” asked Brett, offering the box. They were sitting at one of the round picnic tables that lined the perimeter of the park. Eddy ignored the offer, instead leaning over to take a bite of the half-eaten one Brett held in his hand. The donut was too sweet for his tastes, as he knew it would be, but the flush of embarrassment on Brett’s face was just right.</p><p> </p><p>An old lady walking by paused briefly at their table and remarked on what a cute couple they were.</p><p> </p><p>“No-we’re not--”</p><p> </p><p>“We’re not what?” Eddy teased.</p><p> </p><p>Brett glared at him but, finding nothing to say, took another aggressive bite of donut. “None for you.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The narrow paths between the stalls filled up in the early afternoon as people finally emerged from hibernation. Eddy and Brett were alternately separated by children zipping through, or pushed together by the surging crowds. Sometimes, they were jostled so close that their arms brushed together. Eddy saw Brett take one or two surreptitious glances down at their hands, which swung in tandem just millimeters apart, then look away again with nonchalance.</p><p> </p><p>Stubborn brat.</p><p> </p><p>Just before they could be pushed apart again, Eddy grabbed the small hand that swung innocently by his own and pulled Brett close. Brett looked up at him in surprise.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s weird,” he said in his abashed, mosquito voice.</p><p> </p><p>“I guess,” Eddy agreed thoughtfully. He let go for an instant, only to interlace their fingers. “This better?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett’s face sunk deep into his puffer. But he didn’t pull away.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The hours trickled away without their noticing as they wandered aimlessly from the Christmas ornaments to the overpriced cheese boards to hot chocolate and macarons, inseparably linked by their entwined fingers. Brett was summoned home just as blue skies gave way to purple dusk. Before they parted ways, Eddy took Brett’s phone and called himself. He didn’t go so far as to say <em>I’ll text you</em>, but Brett, who had been feeling a bit put out about parting, felt a renewed sense of exuberance.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Brett’s mother took him to a late meal at Masa. It was rare that they had time to eat a private meal together, which was why Grace felt particularly exasperated as she watched her son take out his phone every five minutes while absently stuffing his face with sashimi. A wasted omakase, she thought, apologizing to the sushi master.</p><p> </p><p>The old man laughed heartily and said, “It’s clear the young man has more important things on his mind. You are waiting for a message, perhaps?” Brett denied this.</p><p> </p><p>But Grace, who noticed a suspicious blush on his cheeks and stutter in his voice, felt both amused and a fleeting sense of unease. It’s true that a mother couldn’t hold onto her child forever, or protect the child from everything. At the end of the day, Brett would have to forge his own path forward. But she couldn't help think that, with all her money and influence, she could, at the very least, save him from the gossip and the rumors, from unnecessary suffering . . . </p><p> </p><p>Brett glanced at her and asked what was wrong.<br/><br/></p><p> </p><p>"Nothing."</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The text Brett was waiting for finally came at around 10, a simple <em>good night</em>.</p><p> </p><p>What the fuck, Brett grumbled under his breath. That’s it?</p><p> </p><p>Also, who sleeps at 10? Not Brett. And not Eddy, if Brett could help it. Eddy’s text had opened the floodgates and what followed was an endless spam of sushi pictures and other nonsense as Brett rolled around his bed, gnawing on chips. Every so often, Eddy’s short, sharp responses would draw a gurgling laugh from him.</p><p> </p><p>He fell asleep with a vague feeling of anticipation for the future, which he hadn’t felt for a long time and which should have worried him, but strangely, didn’t.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>FYI I did post two chapters today, so if you haven't read 17 yet, read that one first!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“So what you’re telling us,” said Sumina, “is that you spent two nights with this guy but nothing happened?”</p><p> </p><p>Sophie smiled into her hand at Brett’s obvious discomfort.</p><p> </p><p>“Physical relationships are overrated,” said Brett.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, it has upgraded to relationship now?” remarked Sophie pointedly. Brett frowned. “That’s not what I meant.”</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe he’s sexually repressed,” Jordan said in a sinister whisper. “Like some prodigies are, you know. They grow up under the iron reign of endless practice, basically wedded to their instruments. Chen kind of has that look. The cold, fastidious look of a sexually repressed genius and, one day, he’ll unleash it all and subject you to all his weird fetishes, like handcuffs or toe-licking and—”</p><p> </p><p>“—Okay. That’s gross—”</p><p> </p><p>“Or,” said Sumina with a kind smile, “he thinks you’re too childish and not yet ready.” She reached over and pinched Brett’s cheeks lightly. “It’s this baby fat. Sex is a crime when your face looks like this.”</p><p> </p><p>“I hate you all.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re welcome.”</p><p> </p><p>Just then, Sophie spotted Hyung and waved him over. Brett shot another death glare at Sumina before he turned to Hyung with a smile. The cellist smiled back, but seemed a touch more reserved than usual.</p><p> </p><p>“I heard the bad news,” Sophie said, giving Hyung a look of sympathy. Hyung shrugged it off, but looked mildly depressed. “It’s all right. These things happen. I feel worse for him.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s the bad news?” asked Brett, his eyes wandering to the packet of tim tams Hyung held. The intensity of his gaze sparked a small laugh from Hyung and spurred him to offer one to Brett—“They’re Australian. My mum just sent them”—which Brett accepted without further prompting.</p><p> </p><p>The bad news was that Hyung’s violin partner had injured his wrist from a biking accident and couldn’t perform at Friday’s workshop. This ordinarily wouldn’t have mattered, except some important people were apparently attending and it would have been a great opportunity for them both.</p><p> </p><p>“And now it’s too late to ask anyone to take his slot, of course. Everyone’s so busy with their own work . . .”</p><p> </p><p>“—I could play with you!”</p><p> </p><p>Everyone turned to stare at Brett, who continued munching on his tim tam with oblivious confidence.</p><p> </p><p>“Really. <em>Humoresque </em>7, right? I’m not as busy as everyone else, and actually, I played it in high school, not very well, but I’m sure with a little brushing up, I’ll be fine. Also, this is really good.”</p><p> </p><p>“Here, have another,” Hyung said, without missing a beat. “And thank you for offering to help. But I thought you . . . didn’t like performing?”</p><p> </p><p>“That was before, but I did fine at the recital. And I was thinking, I’ll never get anywhere if I don’t perform more often. And we still have a whole week!”</p><p> </p><p>An awkward silence hung in the air. Hyung stalled with a tense chuckle and said, “I—I’m not sure—” But something in Brett’s shining, expectant eyes stopped him just short of saying no. “I guess, we could try . . . but we’d have to practice . . . like, a lot. So unless you’re sure . . . ”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sure! It’s deal. I have to go to lessons now, and I’m sure Ed—er—Chen will help. Then we can practice together tomorrow, and I’m sure we’ll be great.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Where do you think he gets his confidence comes from?” Jordan asked, after Brett was out of earshot.</p><p> </p><p>“Money,” replied Sophie, amused and without malice. “It’s nice though. It lends a fascinating quality to his playing. Although, Hyung, you can say no. He’d understand.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know,” replied Hyung with a small laugh.</p><p> </p><p>“Because, you know he and Chen . . . well, you saw them.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know,” Hyung repeated, his smile losing a bit of its spark.</p><p> </p><p>He wasn’t blind, had seen Brett run after Eddy with that look on his face, as if nothing really mattered to him except catching up, and that had hurt as much as it did. Here too, he wasn’t stupid enough to think that Brett had offered to play with him out of some covert affection, or even altruism.</p><p> </p><p>But still, Brett had been the one to offer, hadn’t he? It wasn’t against the rules to say yes.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Brett was hopping towards Eddy’s office, contemplating whether to share the extra tim tam he snagged or to eat it himself, when he unexpectedly ran into Ted Rogers at the entrance of the building. The usually poised president seemed taken aback—a bit flustered, almost—to see Brett.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, there you are. It’s been awhile. Good to see you,” he said with a sort of forced joviality. “Going to lessons? Ha, that’s good. Your recital was good. Do you need a ride later?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett blinked at him in confusion. “No,” he said slowly, “I’m good, thanks.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah. Good. So, look, I uh . . .” They stood at the entrance for a few moments more as Ted struggled to formulate his message. He eventually appeared to give up and waved Brett along. “We’ll talk another time.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>What was that all about, he wondered, as he stepped into Eddy’s office.</p><p> </p><p>“I saw Ted just now,” he remarked, walking up to Eddy with a questioning stare. “Was he here for you? Is everything ok?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” he said, but he looked tired and thoughtful, so the <em>yeah</em> wasn’t altogether convincing.</p><p> </p><p>Noticing the anxiousness in Brett’s eyes, Eddy smiled and said, “Everything’s fine, really. Don’t worry about it.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss on Brett’s forehead. “What’s this you’ve brought me? A tim tam? Where’d you find that?”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh huh.” Brett forced himself to let it go. It’s true, in any case, that Eddy didn’t look particularly upset. “Got it from Hyung.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hyung?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. He’s a cellist. You probably know him—he’s from Australia, and he’s really good, and really nice too. Anyway, we’re friends now, and guess what?” Growing more excited, Brett began to explain how he’d agreed to perform a duet with Hyung at the workshop and how it was sure to be a great success.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy’s listened with quietly, but his expression steadily darkened. His eyes flashed coldly as he looked down at the chocolate biscuit and, at the end of Brett’s short speech, he tossed it remorselessly in the trash bin.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey! What’d you do that for? If you didn’t want it, I would’ve eaten it—”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” Eddy said with a calm forcefulness. “Tim tams are awful for you. Besides, at the rate you’re going, your little face is going to expand beyond recognition.” He pinched Brett’s cheeks as he said this, just as Sumina had. Brett frowned and was about to say something, but Eddy didn’t give him a chance. “<em>Also</em>, I don’t know how you intend to learn a whole new ensemble piece by Friday, when your Debussy’s still all over the place after an entire month of practice. I’m not sure if you’re trying to embarrass Hyung or yourself, but either way, if you know what’s good for you, you’d—”</p><p> </p><p>He paused abruptly as he saw the hurt flash across Brett’s face.</p><p> </p><p>“I—”</p><p> </p><p>“—Sorry,” said Brett stiffly, staring down at his shoes now. “I just thought—they said some important people would be watching on Friday, so I thought that if I could do a good job, I might impress them and I could. . .” <em>I could rise a little closer to you. </em>“But you’re right. I overestimate myself, probably . . .”</p><p>
  
</p><p>A lump formed in Eddy’s throat.</p><p>
  
</p><p>“No, I’m sorry, I was too harsh,” he said, his voice already softening. He drew Brett into his arms. The smaller boy squirmed a little, but eventually gave in and wrapped his own arms around Eddy’s waist.</p><p> </p><p>“I was just being” <em>– irrationally jealous – </em>“neurotic. We still have time on the Debussy, so we can work on the Dvořák first. I’ll go print the music?”</p><p> </p><p>“K,” said Brett, his voice muffled against Eddy’s chest. He, too, had begun to calm down. But he held onto Eddy for few moments longer, relishing the comfort of Eddy’s embrace, which he’d begun to miss, even though they’d only been apart for two days. Eddy smiled and ruffled Brett’s hair affectionately with a low chuckle, seemingly unaware that this wasn’t what Brett wanted.</p><p> </p><p>As Eddy turned away to fiddle with his printer, Brett thoughts returned to the cheek pinching and all the head patting. What if Eddy really <em>did</em> think of him as a child, he wondered with a contemplative pout. He’d certainly have to do something about that.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>By the time Eddy finished with all his students, put together the next day’s lecture, and had his last minute call with the director of the New York Phil, it was already close to eight and campus was nearly empty. He was thus surprised to see a lone figure dwelling outside his apartment, wrapped in that familiar puffer.</p><p> </p><p>“What are you still doing out here?” he admonished, quickly tugging the boy into the building. As he suspected, Brett’s hands were ice cold and trembling. He shot Brett a look full of concerned exasperation.</p><p> </p><p>Brett cleared his throat. “I was waiting for you,” his voice shaky from the cold.</p><p> </p><p>“What for? I told you I was going to be late today, didn’t I?” Eddy asked as he opened the door to his apartment. “You should have gone home—”</p><p> </p><p>He broke off in surprise. Brett had slammed the door shut behind them and, in a surprising show of strength, pushed Eddy against the wall. He then rose up on his tiptoes to peer into Eddy’s eyes with a coy smile.</p><p> </p><p>“For this,” he whispered, sealing Eddy’s lips with a burning kiss.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Did the last scene make you laugh? I laughed as I was imagining it XD</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Chapter 19</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Don't read this if you're too young!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Brett leaned away ever so slightly, satisfied to see Eddy’s pupils enlarging with lust. The older man peered down at him through half-lidded eyes and, growing impatient, placed a hand on his back and drew him in, subtly nudging his legs apart with a deft maneuver of the knee. Brett’s temperature rose– was he losing control of the situation already? The warm hand dropped lower still, resting suggestively on the curve of his butt. Eddy leaned down and captured his lips again, parting them with his tongue and drawing out a soft moan...</p><p> </p><p>“Eddy—” Brett began to say in a breathless whisper. But then abruptly, he pushed Eddy away, turned, and sneezed.</p><p> </p><p>The cloud of desire in Eddy’s eyes dissipated somewhat. He observed Brett with a dry stare.</p><p> </p><p>Brett grinned sheepishly. “So . . . should we keep going?” Another sneeze.</p><p> </p><p>“. . . No thanks.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p><em>No thanks</em>, Eddy had said, because he could tell that Brett was still shivering from the cold, so he had pushed Brett into the bathroom for a hot shower as if he were totally unbothered, as if he weren’t the one who needed a cold rinse.</p><p> </p><p>He fell onto his couch with a broken exhale and looked down with an embarrassed grimace. To think that’s all it took to get it up: a look, a smile, a touch of assertiveness. Eyes, sultry and questioning that said, <em>but</em> <em>don’t you want me</em>? Another second, and he might have given in too, might have tossed that silly boy in bed, consequences be damned, run his fingers over that smooth body, and fucked –</p><p> </p><p>An unhealthy line of thought. He turned his mind to more unpleasant things – mushrooms, roaches – and willed his erection away.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“But you have to admit it was a good surprise,” said Brett with a triumphant grin, feeling better about the whole thing. Clearly, Eddy <em>could</em> be seduced, and that was really all that he had set out to prove.</p><p> </p><p>He was sitting beside Eddy on the couch now, his freshly washed hair dripping water all over the papers Eddy was trying to grade.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy snorted. “Getting sneezed on was a good surprise? That’s a first.” He had turned up the heat so that the room was warm and toasty, but wasn’t wet hair a cause for colds? Eddy retrieved the towel that Brett had flung haphazardly over a chair and rubbed it gently against Brett’s wet strands. Brett leaned happily into the impromptu massage and rewarded him with a pleased, kittenish smile at the end.</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe I’ll try again tomorrow,” Brett mused, now lying down with his head pillowed on Eddy’s thighs, beginning to feel bored. He had been making stray marks and drawing faces on Eddy’s papers with a red pen until Eddy took it away from him and told him to behave. “Besides, I don’t see why you have to work so much.”</p><p> </p><p>“Some of us aren’t trust fund babies. Have to learn a living somehow.”</p><p> </p><p>“But I can take care of you,” Brett murmured sleepily. “I have enough money.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy rolled his eyes skyward, hiding a smile.</p><p> </p><p>“Anyway, I . . .” But it was unclear what Brett had in mind, as his sentence trailed off and his eyes drifted shut.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>As it turned out, nothing happened the next day, because Brett practiced his duet with Hyung for too many hours and by the time Eddy brought him back, he was half dead with fatigue.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not too bad,” said Hyung, pleasantly surprised.  Which was to say, it wasn’t the best he’d ever heard, but for one-day notice, it wasn’t awful. Perhaps he should have given Brett more credit.</p><p> </p><p>“Right?”</p><p> </p><p>“But, I think your intonation is off. And also . . .”</p><p> </p><p>Hyung saw Brett’s excited smile fade as he began listing all the issues, and he fought the urge to laugh. He knew it surprised people that he lost his easygoing nature when practicing, though he wasn’t sure why. How did they think he improved?</p><p> </p><p>But as to Brett, the seriousness behind his critique carried also, perhaps, the tiniest bit of selfishness, driven by the small part of him that wished to elongate their time together just slightly, before he inevitably had to return him.</p><p> </p><p>The first time he noticed Brett was when the boy had fallen asleep at the workshop in September. In a sea of serious, anxious faces, his was the only one relaxed in slumber. When Brett woke up and their eyes met unexpectedly, he remembered finding Brett’s guilty look rather funny. Funny, and a little bit cute.</p><p> </p><p>Was that what had sparked his interest? Or was it their chance meeting at the bar, when Brett had followed him out looking bewildered and helpless? Or was it all their subsequent meetings, when Brett did nothing special at all, but still managed to capture his thoughts anyway?</p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t really explain it. Maybe Sophie was right in that it was the money, which freed Brett from the more mundane concerns in life and allowed him to be enticingly bold and irreverent.</p><p> </p><p>Or maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe funny and cute was enough.</p><p> </p><p>Whatever it was, it wasn’t serious. Just a small, inexplicable, unjustifiable attraction to a cute boy that he knew he couldn’t have. A tiny bit of heartache—nothing special in that. He’d get over it.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>They finally called it quits at around 10, when Brett was so exhausted he could barely lift his violin. He peered sideways at Hyung and thought, the guy may look nice but was just terrible as Eddy when it came to practicing. Can’t judge a book by its cover these days. Lamentable. Hyung turned to him with a smile – that deceptive smile again! – and asked how he was getting home.</p><p> </p><p>Home . . .</p><p> </p><p>It had begun to rain, not very hard, but hard enough. Brett felt cold just thinking about trekking home in this weather and huddling by himself in the empty condo as it thundered and stormed. Of course, he’d done that all his life up to this point and had obviously survived just fine. Tonight should be no different, but somehow . . .</p><p> </p><p>He hesitated for a few moments more before, finally, he stepped out of the practice room and called that person who had been hovering at the edge of his thoughts all day.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello?”</p><p> </p><p>For a few moments, Brett lost his ability to speak, suddenly shy. There was something different about hearing a voice on the phone, a strange exhilaration in discovering that he could now call Eddy whenever he wanted, and Eddy would answer.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello?” Eddy repeated.</p><p> </p><p>“H-Hi.”</p><p> </p><p>A light laugh. “What’s up?”</p><p> </p><p>“Er. I . . . I don’t have an umbrella.”</p><p> </p><p>“Mm-hmm . . . and?”</p><p> </p><p>“And . . . I guess I was wondering . . . do you think you can come get me?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Hyung wasn’t really surprised by Eddy’s eventual appearance, or by the cold hello Eddy gave him, even though they’d technically known each other for half their lives.</p><p> </p><p>For as long as Hyung could remember, Eddy treated everyone with the same, indiscriminate coldness. You couldn’t say he was impolite or mean, but he held people at a distance. Maybe he was shy, or maybe he thought everyone else was beneath him. Certainly, most kids thought it was the latter and griped about him behind his back—who did he think he was? But he kept winning so, in a way, they were beneath him. Besides, what it did matter that he had no friends? In the end, he was the one whisked away to study with the best teachers and to tour with the best orchestras.</p><p> </p><p>In fact, for awhile after Eddy left, Hyung had forgotten about him. It was only when the negative reviews began trickling in that he resurfaced in Hyung’s mind. People were always amazed by child prodigies, but less forgiving when the children grew up. The same jealous kids from before forwarded the articles to Hyung, with snide chuckles here and there. Hyung didn’t care much, except that he wasn’t very surprised. Eddy’s playing had always bored him to some degree, a robotic rendition of the real thing, just like his personality.</p><p> </p><p>So what did surprise Hyung was the gentle look of affection on Eddy’s face as he turned to Brett.</p><p> </p><p>“You have everything?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yep!” Brett went to him with a hop in his step. (And he had been so tired just moments before, hadn’t he?) “Bye Hyung!” he said with a wave. “See you tomorrow.”</p><p> </p><p>“See you tomorrow,” Hyung replied with a smile, which faded gradually as he watched the unlikely pair walk into the night.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>They lay side by side in the cozy, warm bed, as the rain battered against the windows and the wind howled through the trees.</p><p> </p><p>Brett said, “Remember how awhile back, you offered to drive me home? And it was also raining? And you got really wet on one side because you were holding the umbrella for me? Ok, tell me the truth, you had already <em>inappropriate</em> feelings for me, didn’t you?”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy rolled his eyes in the dark. “Or maybe I’m just a nice person. Also, remember how you used to be quiet and intimidated by me? What happened to that?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett ignored that and shifted closer to him under the thick blankets. “You should’ve just told me. I thought you hated me for the longest time.”</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe I did.”</p><p> </p><p>“Nah, don’t believe you. <em>Also</em>, Jordan thinks you have a weird foot fetish. Can you confirm or deny? I mean, I’m pretty open minded, but I think I would draw the line at feet.”</p><p> </p><p>“Jordan, huh. And here I was wondering whether I should assign him that new piece . . . guess that answers it.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett chortled against Eddy’s shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“Now good to sleep, you little troll, before you ruin any more lives.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Brett liked to press close when they slept together, Eddy noticed, as if he wanted to assure himself that Eddy was still there. That was fine, Eddy supposed. He liked holding Brett in his arms, the weight of the warm body reminding him that he wasn’t so alone anymore.</p><p> </p><p>The one issue, of course, was that the warm body also sparked other physical reactions, which Eddy had some difficulty controlling.</p><p> </p><p>Brett was already asleep, his shallow, even breaths fluttering provocatively against Eddy’s neck. Eddy stared into the darkness and sighed.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The next night was worse. Brett insisted that he didn’t want to wear pajama bottoms anymore. “They’re too long,” he whined, “so they keep sliding off. It’s uncomfortable.”</p><p> </p><p>Was it on purpose, Eddy wondered, as Brett rolled close so that his long, slender legs became entangled with Eddy’s. But then the boy blinked innocently at him with drooping, sleepy eyes, said good night, and promptly fell asleep.</p><p> </p><p>At some point, Brett shifted and his bare thigh grazed lightly against Eddy’s dick.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re <em>banned</em>,” Eddy muttered with a small groan. Brett, who didn’t hear him, smiled angelically in sleep.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Brett continued sleeping in Eddy’s theory class the next day, which earned him a small glare from the frustrated professor (frustrated in more ways than one). The glare intensified as he thought about the fact that Brett was sleeping through his class because he’d spent too many hours practicing with Hyung – whose feelings were nothing if not obvious – then mellowed out again as he reflected on how much effort Brett was putting into his performance.</p><p> </p><p>Three months ago, this would have been unimaginable.</p><p> </p><p>So maybe Brett will be fine after he leaves, Eddy thought absently. That’s all he’d been worried about, that Brett might be discouraged by his departure, but it appeared now that Brett could find his own way, and that Brett would continue to flourish because, as he had explained in that candid way of his from the beginning, he simply liked playing the violin . . .</p><p> </p><p>. . . And maybe one day, if they were really lucky, they might meet on stage somewhere and play a duet, and the duet would certainly sound better than whatever the fuck he was performing with Hyung.</p><p> </p><p>(Sophie, who was trying to pay attention, wanted to tell Eddy that he should maybe not smile so creepily towards the back of the lecture hall as he waxed poetic about his love for Lydian scales.)</p><p> </p><p>*          *          *</p><p> </p><p>“I think we’re ready,” Hyung said with a smile. “We sound reasonably good, and I think the rest will just be up to chance.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett looked at him in surprise. “Really?” He didn’t mind ending early, and he thought they sounded all right too, but it was only eight, and he could still hear other people practicing nearby.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. And it’s best not to strain ourselves before the actual performance. You look tired. You should go home . . . or go wherever, and get some rest.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett blushed. “I don’t actually . . . we don’t live together. It’s just temporary.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to explain. It’s not really any of my business.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh . . .” Was it his imagination, or did Hyung sound a touch colder than usual? “Okay, well, you too, I guess. Thanks for putting up with me this week. I’ll see you tomorrow?”</p><p> </p><p>Hyung nodded and waved him off.</p><p> </p><p>Tomorrow, one day more, and then he could move on with his life, leaving behind this small regret.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Brett sat down and took out his violin again while Eddy showered, figuring he’d play a few more times and get Eddy’s thoughts on it. It was nice tune and, despite having played it nonstop for a week now, he still quite liked it, particularly the bright, playful melody at the start. His lips quirked into a small, content smile as he played, and his bare legs swayed to the rhythm.</p><p> </p><p>He was so immersed in the piece that it took him a few moments to realize that Eddy had left the bathroom and was leaning against the wall, watching him. The look in Eddy’s eyes startled him and his playing came to an abrupt halt, the last note quivering skittishly in the air.</p><p> </p><p>“I thought I’d play for you, to get your comments,” he stammered, suddenly shy again though he couldn’t say why. “D-do you want to hear it from the beginning?” But he knew Eddy didn’t and he lowered his violin even as he asked. The collar of the oversized pajama top slipped innocently off his right shoulder as he did this, baring the small mole that dotted the base of his pale neck.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy walked over without answering, still with that look in his eyes, wolfish almost. Brett swallowed nervously, but let Eddy to take the violin from him and place it on other end of the couch. “Um . . . are we—do you—what are you—”</p><p> </p><p>“You know,” said Eddy, his voice low and husky. “It can be dangerous when you keep playing with fire.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ha ha. That’s cheesy—<em>ah . . .</em>” Brett inhaled sharply as Eddy pushed him against the back of the couch and press his lips to the exposed mole. “St-stop. People will see,” Brett protested weakly, as Eddy bit gently into the sensitive patch of skin.  </p><p> </p><p>“Good,” said Eddy with a small smirk.</p><p> </p><p>“A-and I have to perform tomorrow, so I can’t—<em>mmph</em>.” The rest of the sentence was lost in Eddy’s kiss, a different kind of kiss, hot and impatient. His tongue deftly coaxed Brett’s lips apart and slipped in, lapping up Brett’s tiny gasps for breath, until Brett lost his train of thought.</p><p> </p><p>While Brett was distracted by Eddy’s ravenous kisses, he scooped Brett up from the couch and began walking towards the bedroom. Brett, with a small scream, wrapped his legs around Eddy’s waist to stabilize himself. Eddy smiled and savored the way Brett clung to him as he carried him to the bed, setting him down gently.</p><p> </p><p>“Wait-wh-what are you—”</p><p> </p><p>“Helping you,” said Eddy, as he unbuttoned Brett’s flannel top and slipped it off, revealing an expanse of pale skin begging to be kissed. The blood rushed to Brett’s face and he reflexively reached for blankets, but Eddy restrained him by capturing his wrists.  </p><p> </p><p>“You can’t hide now,” Eddy admonished, “when you’ve been tempting me all week.” He brought one of Brett’s hands to his lips, kissing those fingertips that had tempted him for far longer, since day one, perhaps, when Brett had sauntered into his office with that awful Bach performance.</p><p> </p><p>“N-no . . . only that once . . .”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s not true,” Eddy whispered. “All the time.” He kissed Brett again, slower this time, hungrily. He stared into Brett’s eyes as he pulled away. “Can I . . . ?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett blushed, but couldn’t look away, not with Eddy Chen gazing at him like that, as if he were the only thing that mattered in the whole world . . . He wrapped his arms around Eddy’s neck and leaned up for a kiss—a silent acquiescence.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Eddy’s down at Brett, who was curled beside him in exhausted sleep, the flush on his face barely receded and his lashes still wet with tears. Perhaps he’d gone too hard . . . but it was hard to hold himself back when Brett looked at him with those glassy eyes, his small moans and whimpers filling the room as Eddy thrust into him . . . .</p><p> </p><p>He gently drew the boy closer and pressed a light kiss to his forehead.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy murmured softly, as if he were trying the words out, “I love you.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett mumbled something incomprehensible, but didn’t awaken.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>For those curious about the technical aspects of writing, here are real conversations I had:</p><p>Men vs. women<br/>Me: Should I use the word butt?<br/>My bf: UH can we not talk about this.<br/>My bff: If it's fluff, I like the word butt, but otherwise, I like the word ass.</p><p>Dick vs. Erection<br/>Me: Well I want to say his thigh brushed against Eddy's dick. What is the appropriate term?<br/>My bff: I think that's fine. Erection is another word they use a lot.<br/>Me: Should I use erection here?<br/>Her: I mean is he already erect? You said it was unintentional brushing.<br/>Me: I guess so.<br/>Her: So then it's still just a dick.</p><p>I thought her logic was impeccable. </p><p>ANYWAY I hope you enjoyed hahaha let me know ///^_^/// Also, I think just two or three more chapters O_O</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Chapter 20</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Brett finally awakened the next morning – later than Eddy, for once – his bleary vision met with the other man’s soft gaze. “Are you feeling okay?” he asked, brushing Brett’s hair from his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>It took Brett a few moments to process the full meaning behind that question, and to realize that he was stark naked under the sheets, and that Eddy was too, and that he <em>wasn’t</em> all that okay, physically speaking.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry if I . . . over-exerted you,” Eddy remarked delicately.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh god, stop,” Brett groaned. Not sure where to look or what to do, he crawled closer to Eddy and buried his face against Eddy’s chest, like an ostrich burying its head in the sand.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Eddy allowed for them to waffle in bed a few minutes longer before the disciplined professor in him decided, <em>enough</em>, time to get Brett to class. Brett’s pitiful glare did nothing to change his mind; he simply scooped the blob of a boy up and carried him to the bathroom. While Brett reluctantly got ready, Eddy toasted a bagel for him and slathered it with cream cheese, just the way Brett liked it.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t think I’ve forgiven you,” Brett huffed as he hobbled over to the dining table. Eddy tugged him gently into his lap and held the bagel up as a peace offering. Brett wrinkled his nose. “I’m not a baby, I don’t need to be fed.” But he took a generous bite anyway, because it was already there. “Also, I can’t believe you did that right before the performance.”</p><p> </p><p>“. . . Sorry. Did it hurt?”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course it fucking hurt!” Brett blushed. “It’s not like I’d ever . . . you know, with a guy, before. Ugh, stop <em>smiling</em>!”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy laughed and rested his head on Brett’s shoulder, just barely stopping himself from saying, <em>and you won’t, ever again, with anyone else. </em></p><p> </p><p>            *         </p><p> </p><p>At around lunch time, Hyung went to drop off some papers at Joel Krosnick’s office and was surprised to see Eddy there. His instructor beckoned him in with a warm smile.</p><p> </p><p>“We were just talking about how much we look forward to your performance this afternoon. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Brett play, and certainly not the two of you together, so that’ll be a treat for me.”</p><p> </p><p>“I hope so,” Hyung replied politely. “I think it’ll be good.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy was less diplomatic, with his mild, “I wouldn’t get your hopes up. For Brett, at least.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh please, Eddy, he’s your student!” Joel exclaimed, laughing. “I’m sure it’ll be wonderful. By the way, Hyung, I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but Eddy will be leaving us soon.”</p><p> </p><p>Hyung looked at Eddy in surprise. “Ah, I haven’t heard, actually . . .”</p><p> </p><p>“Moving onto greater things. Performing with the New York Phil again, aren’t you? And then tour?”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy didn’t quite meet Hyung’s gaze. “It’s not entirely set, but yes hopefully . . .”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>An awkward silence hung over them as they walked out of Joel’s office.</p><p> </p><p>Finally, Hyung cleared his throat and said, “So, performing again? I’m sure that’ll spark some excitement in the classical world.”</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe. I don’t care too much about that.”</p><p> </p><p>Hyung found that hard to believe, but didn’t’ comment. He asked instead, “Have you told him?”</p><p> </p><p>“. . . Not yet.” A small pause. “I’d like him to finish the semester without thinking about it. He’s distracted easily enough as is. So I’d appreciate it if you could keep it quiet.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure.”</p><p> </p><p>“Besides, it’s not all that important. I’ll still be in New York for the foreseeable future,” Eddy added unnecessarily, giving Hyung a pointed, sidelong glance. “Just so you know.”</p><p> </p><p>Hyung mulled this over. “Right. But then again, you won’t be around on campus all the time,” he mused. “Whereas, I will, so I’ll see him much more than you . . .”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy’s eyes flashed dangerously. “And?”</p><p> </p><p>Hyung couldn’t suppress his laugh this time. An unexpected side of the great Edward Chen, exposed. “And, nothing,” he said, amused, as Eddy’s face reddened with embarrassment.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Brett didn’t like the smirks on his friends’ faces.  </p><p> </p><p>“Ah, hickey,” Sumina pointed out.</p><p> </p><p>Brett glared at her and reluctantly buttoned the top button of his shirt.</p><p> </p><p>“That looks weirder than just showing the hickey. Like, weird old man vibes. Just so you know.”</p><p> </p><p>“Shut up.”</p><p> </p><p>“Our Bretty is not so innocent anymore,” Sophie declared with a sad shake of her head.</p><p> </p><p>“Not you too,” Brett moaned.</p><p> </p><p>“Was it good?” Sumina pressed.</p><p> </p><p>“No—”</p><p> </p><p>“Chen was <em>bad</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, I meant that I don’t want to talk about it! Anyway I need to use the restroom before workshop starts.”</p><p> </p><p>The two girls giggled obnoxiously but motioned for him to go.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It being close to the start of workshop, the halls of the building were empty and quiet, and it was only when Brett was within reach of the restroom that he heard some threads of quiet chatter.</p><p> </p><p>--<em>someone like him performing with Hyung. I don’t really get it.</em> <em>Mediocre at best. </em></p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>--It’s the money. Can do whatever he wants. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>--Ha . . . true. And he’s sleeping with professors. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p><em>--I </em>know. <em>Like what the actual fuck? Do you think he’s doing it for the grade, or that Chen’s doing it for his money? And is it just Chen or—</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>“It’s just Chen,” Brett said nonchalantly as he sauntered into the restroom.</p><p> </p><p>The two guys – Brett barely knew their names – exchanged flustered looks and stuttered something incoherent.</p><p> </p><p>Brett peered at them over his glasses with a deadpan stare and remarked with a sort of bored incredulity, “Although I don’t see why you think I’d need to sleep with him for the grade. You don’t seriously think the school would fail me? Chen’s pretty lucky though, don’t you think? He’s already a famous soloist, and now he’s managed to snag me.”</p><p> </p><p>One of the guys laughed awkwardly and began to apologize, but Brett didn’t give him the chance. “You guys, on the other hand, will probably be poor, nameless, second-rate musicians for the rest of your lives.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The dialogue replayed in Brett’s head as he bowed and took his seat on the stage. It wasn’t entirely surprising. He had vaguely anticipated that something like this might happen, that people might talk, but when his friends barely batted an eye, he still held out hope that everything would be fine. He’d been too naïve, perhaps . . .</p><p> </p><p>And yet, he thought as he lifted his violin to his shoulder. He found Eddy in the audience, staring back at him. Those eyes that had once viewed him with such cold indifference now held a hint of smile, a tender anticipation that could be seen even from a distance. Brett’s lips, too, curved up at the corners, and Dvorak’s cheeky little tune for passengers on a train acquired a bit more romance--a soft, wistful longing.           </p><p> </p><p>And yet, Brett thought, he didn’t regret it.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>An excellent performance, Joel was saying to them, or something along those lines. Brett wasn’t really listening. He was glancing subtly at Eddy from the corner of his eye, thinking about how little he cared about other people’s views, after all, and how much better it would be if they could leave right then. Maybe they could go back to Eddy’s apartment, or maybe they could share a cup of cocoa, and it would just be the two of them again . . .  </p><p> </p><p>“And Brett, I was particularly intrigued by your interpretation of the piece. It wasn’t, of course, what Dvorak had intended, but I quite enjoyed it, the sincerity in your performance.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett blinked in surprise. The speaker was the new professor, a famous violinist who’d recently jumped ship from Curtis. She smiled a kind, grandmotherly smile at him and said, “I’d be interested to hear more from you.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett stammered a shy thanks to her and shot a bewildered look at Eddy. Eddy shrugged, but gave him a rare grin.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“It’s because I taught you well,” said Eddy, after Brett asked him for the millionth time if she’d meant it. “Now, after dragging me all the way here, do you want the cookie or not?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett nibbled on his lower lip as he wavered.</p><p> </p><p>In the twilight hours of late fall, Bouchon Bakery was a cozy outpost of warmth in the middle of Rockefeller Center, saturated with the enticing aroma of chocolate and gingerbread. Brett and Eddy huddled in an obscure corner of the café beneath a pretty wreath, Brett with his cup of spiced cocoa and Eddy with his usual black coffee. Familiar carols infused their uneventful conversation with holiday cheer, and Brett would have felt perfectly happy, except for the fact: “But you said I’m growing too fat.”</p><p> </p><p>“What? When did I say that?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett stared at Eddy mournfully. “When you threw away my tim tam. You said my face was, quote, expanding beyond recognition.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy’s eyes widened, then looked away guiltily. “Did I say that? I’m sure I didn’t mean it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then why’d you throw away my cookie?” Brett propped his head up on his elbows with a listless sigh.</p><p> </p><p>“Because . . .”</p><p> </p><p>“See? It’s true, I <em>am</em> growing pudgy.” He pushed at his rounded cheeks with a pout, looking so awfully adorable that Eddy almost lost his train of thought.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not. Anyway, I wouldn’t care if you were. I only said that because . . .”</p><p> </p><p>“Because?”</p><p> </p><p>A pained expression flitted across Eddy’s stoic face. He lowered his voice. “Because Hyung gave it to you.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett peered at him curiously. “Because Hyung gave it to me? But why . . . ” A mischievous smirk began form in his lips as he unpacked the sentence. “You were jealous?”</p><p> </p><p>“No.”</p><p> </p><p>“You <em>were</em>. Admit it!”</p><p> </p><p>“Was not . . .”</p><p> </p><p>“But that’s no reason to throw away a perfectly good cookie. Now you should have to buy me two . . .”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Brett bit into his gooey, chocolate chip cookie with a content sigh and stared out the window, where the larger-than-life Rockefeller Christmas tree glittered prominently in the night sky, towering above squealing children on the ice rink. How many times had Brett sat at this exact window overlooking this exact scene, alone and wishing, deep down, that he wasn’t?</p><p> </p><p>He peeked at Eddy and, lightening fast, leaned across the table and pecked him on the lips. Before Eddy could react, he had already retreated back to his seat, his cheeks suspiciously pink.</p><p> </p><p>“I just felt like it,” he said, before Eddy could ask him anything.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy laughed softly and reached for Brett’s cookie-free hand. “That’s fine,” he said, pressing the small hand lightly, refusing to let go.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>When Brett returned home that evening to pick up some fresh clothes, he was surprised to see that his mother had returned unexpectedly from her business trip. Perched on the couch in the dimly-lit living room, she traced Brett’s wary entrance with a hint of a frown.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey Mom,” he greeted, feeling a bit sheepish.</p><p> </p><p>She nodded and motioned for him to take a seat. “You didn’t tell me you’d be gone all week.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett’s heart thumped in his chest as he tentatively sat down beside her. “I—who said—”</p><p> </p><p>“Robert downstairs. He said he you’ve only been home once this week, and only to pick up some things. Where have you been?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not—I was just busy, that’s all. I had a special performance today that I needed to practice for, and it was just easier—and did you know, it went really well! This new professor, she really liked—”</p><p> </p><p>“—Did you stay with Professor Chen?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett fell silent. He looked at his mother uneasily.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you?” she repeated, voice colder now.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah . . .”</p><p> </p><p>Brett hadn’t seen his mother so angry in a long time, and yet there was powerlessness that underlined her anger, as she tried to hold onto something that was slipping away. I’m not saying you can’t see him, she said, or have a relationship with him, but I didn’t think you’d go and <em>live </em>with him without telling me. You’re only eighteen. So young and sheltered. What will people think of you, spending so many nights with him, with him practically living on campus? And him, he’s seen so much more of the world than you, had to make a name for himself. How do you know what he’s thinking? That he’s right for you? That he’ll treat you well? And on and on she went, unable to stop herself.</p><p> </p><p>Brett’s heart grew heavy. He didn’t really know what to say, except that he felt it wasn’t quite fair.</p><p> </p><p>“If he really cared about you, he wouldn’t have let you stay over.”</p><p> </p><p>“He probably cares about me more than you,” he murmured softly.</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“At least he’s here for me.”</p><p> </p><p>“How could you say that? I’m your mother, Brett Yang. Who do you think I work so hard for? I hardly sleep, because of you—”</p><p> </p><p>“I know, but you’re never here,” said Brett, his voice cracking. “You didn’t even know I was gone until you spoke to the doorman. You just leave me in this godforsaken house and hope I turn out okay, but I <em>hate </em>it. I hate it that you’re never home and I’m always here by myself, have been for the past ten years, with nothing to do and nothing to look forward to, because you don’t care what I’m up to and you have no expectations for my future. So you’re right—I don’t know if he’s right or what he’s thinking or if he’ll treat me well forever, but at least for <em>now</em>, when I’m with him, I don’t have to be alone and I can play the violin, and that’s enough.”</p><p> </p><p>“Brett—”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m an adult and I can make my own decisions, Mom. I wish you wouldn’t try to take that away from me.”</p><p> </p><p>And for the first time in ten years, Brett slammed his bedroom door.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>He debated for awhile whether to call Eddy, but who was he kidding? As if he could stop himself.</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t come over tonight,” he said, trying his best to keep his voice steady. “So you can enjoy some peace and quiet.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hmm . . . That’ll be nice,” said Eddy.</p><p> </p><p>Brett’s heart dropped a little and he curled up tighter in bed.</p><p> </p><p>“Though it’ll be hard to sleep, I guess.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why?”</p><p> </p><p>“The bed smells like you now, but you aren’t here.”</p><p> </p><p>A small smile resurfaced Brett’s face. “So you miss me,” he said, half-jokingly and not expecting a response.</p><p> </p><p>“I miss you.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett couldn’t say why, but that was when his tears began to fall.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I don't have real comments, except to say that I've always been staunchly top!Eddy, but like, "sometimes you have to force it in" . . . HMM. Okay Brett.</p><p>(Also, in researching Hyung, he's definitely the real Ling Ling, wtf)</p><p>Thank you for reading! :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Chapter 21</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Brett emerged from his room mid-morning, his eyes red and puffy, his mother was already sitting at the dining table, waiting for him. Before her was a cup of soymilk, a bowl of porridge, some side dishes—things she used to make long ago.</p><p> </p><p>“I made breakfast,” she said, her voice wavering with uncertainty. Gone was the respected business leader who always knew what to do, and in her stead was a single mother who couldn’t be more ordinary, who didn’t know where she went wrong and how to make amends.   Her eyes were as red and puffy as Brett’s.</p><p> </p><p>A lump formed in his throat. He had intended to sneak out and find Eddy, but now he just felt guilty. He sat down hesitantly before the bowl of porridge and ate a spoonful. The familiar taste drew out long-forgotten memories.</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks,” he said softly.</p><p> </p><p>Neither of them were good at talking about their feelings, but both recognized this for what it was: a small truce.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>They spent the rest of the day walking on eggshells. His mother did work on the couch while Brett pretended to study in his room. Sometimes, when he tiptoed out for water, she’d look at him as if she wanted to say something, but would stop just short of saying it.</p><p> </p><p>Brett thought vindictively, it’s too late. But the more rational part of him knew the truth. That regardless of what he’d lashed out with last night, no one in this world loved him more than his mother—not Eddy, not anyone. Deep down, he knew that she was the only one who had always been with him and who always will be.</p><p> </p><p>So his anger gave way to a simmering frustration. He both wanted to apologize and to stand his ground.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Around five, after a day of repressed anxiety, Brett again thought about leaving, but when his mother looked up at him with her sad, uncertain eyes and asked if he wanted to go out for dinner, he said, “I kind of want curry. Like, the kind you used to make, with the Japanese cubes. If that’s okay.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” she said, with a more genuine smile this time. “Yeah, I can do that.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>And then she surprised him by apologizing first.</p><p> </p><p>Over their steaming bowls of curry, she said, “I’m sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>Sorry for neglecting him, sorry for thinking, somehow, that if she just worked harder, she could ensure that he would never want for anything, that she could somehow buy him the best life.  </p><p> </p><p>“And you’re so quiet. It’s strange, you know. You’re not really a quiet child, but you’re somehow good at bottling these things up. Sometimes I even wondered if you missed me at all. Ha. Stupid of me, really. I should have . . . Definitely not mom of the year, huh?” She gave a self-deprecating laugh.</p><p> </p><p>Brett stared hard at his bowl, ignoring the burn in his eyes. “That’s not true . . .” It was disconcerting, in a way, to realize that his mother, who had been infallible for as long as he could remember, could admit to being wrong, and not having all the answers in life.</p><p> </p><p>“I should have realized . . . but I’m glad you spoke up. I’m not the best mother, I know, but you can tell me these things, and I can try to fix them. I’ll try to be around more, if that’s—if that’s what . . . ” Her voice grew quiet here and she looked down with a thin grimace. “But maybe it’s too late. You’ve already grown up without me.”</p><p> </p><p>Maybe, thought Brett. He wasn’t really sure, but it hurt him to see her eyes filed with tears.</p><p> </p><p>The one outcome worse than all the rest would be if he drove her away too.</p><p> </p><p>So he said, “That’d be nice, actually.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>They didn’t talk about Eddy Chen.</p><p> </p><p>Sunday passed peacefully, a tentative calm restored after the storm. The usually frigid apartment felt somewhat livelier with the both of them there, even though they were still cautious around each other and barely spoke. In the afternoon, when the room was lit by golden rays of the dying sun, that she asked if he would be practicing his violin, and if she could listen.</p><p> </p><p>He played through his skimpy repertoire of Mozart and Debussy and Dvorak, which didn’t really constitute practice, but he liked the way she smiled as she listened.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry I missed your performance,” she said after he’d finished. “Somehow, I didn’t think you were actually serious about this.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett frowned and mumbled, “But you never think I’m serious about anything.”</p><p> </p><p>She smiled at him apologetically. “I know. I stand corrected.” Still, she thought, she was glad he could voice it now. To lighten the mood, she teased, “But as to the violin, I assumed you were practicing hard just to impress your Professor Ch—”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Mom. </em>No.”</p><p> </p><p>“No?” She almost cracked a smile at the telltale blush on Brett’s cheeks. “All right, whatever you say. In any case, I realize now that the acoustics in this room are awful. What if we bought the apartment downstairs and renovate it into a large practice for you?”</p><p> </p><p>“I mean, that seems like overkill . . . but if you want to, I wouldn’t say no. . .”</p><p> </p><p>They glanced at each other and laughed.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t until dinner that Brett finally brought it up again. “About Eddy,” he ventured between bites of pizza.</p><p> </p><p>Grace raised an eyebrow.</p><p> </p><p>“Er. Professor Chen.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes?”</p><p> </p><p>“When did you find out . . . or, how did you figure out . . . about us?”</p><p> </p><p>Have you seen the way he looks like you? Grace wanted to ask her silly, naïve son. Or vice versa. Who did he think he was fooling? “Maternal instincts.”</p><p> </p><p>“Huh?”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s stealing you away from me, after all.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, that’s not true,” Brett protested. “I mean, I don’t even know. It’s not, like, very serious. I just--”</p><p> </p><p>Grace stared at him with a discerning look in her eye, the kind that pierced through her adversaries and made freshman analysts cry.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, fine. I just . . . like him. Maybe. A little bit.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, Brett.” She gave him an amused smile.</p><p> </p><p>“But I don’t know . . . how he feels.”</p><p> </p><p>“It sounds like you don’t even know how you feel.”</p><p> </p><p>“Um.”</p><p> </p><p>Finding himself at a loss, Brett tried to eat his feelings with a large bite of pizza. Grace sighed with a mixture of affection and concern.</p><p> </p><p>“Brett, I stand by what I said the other night. Whatever you might think, I’m not a conservative old hag, and at the end of the day, I just want you to be happy. So I don’t oppose whatever feelings you might have.”</p><p> </p><p>“Really?” Brett asked uncertainly. “It’s not . . . weird?”</p><p> </p><p>“I mean, it is <em>weird. </em>But in the grand scheme of things, it could have been worse. At least he’s famous and talented, and not after you money. And not hideous. And not a serial killer, as far as we know. And he was polite to me at the dinner. Those are all positives,” she explained, the analytical business woman in her creeping back in.</p><p> </p><p>“. . . Right.”</p><p> </p><p>“But I also want to you to know that, as your mother, I never want to see you get hurt. Spending nights at your professor’s place, when you’re not even sure how you feel about him, is risky. He’s not much older, but he <em>is</em> older, and he’s more worldly—don’t make that face, you know it’s true. I just don’t want you to have any unnecessary regrets. So, all I’m saying is that you should consider keeping some distance until you figure things out.  For example, I strongly advise against your sleeping over. That’s all. Does that make sense?</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah . . . I guess so.”</p><p> </p><p>“But if you must, which I understand for young people is sometimes the case, I insist on protection. You guys used a condom?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Mother</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Until you figure things out.</p><p> </p><p>In the dark and under his covers, Brett scrolled through the inconsequential texts Eddy had sent him over the weekend with a small smile.</p><p> </p><p>What would it take to figure things out?</p><p> </p><p>Eddy had said once that kisses just happen sometimes, and that he didn’t mean anything by it. But Eddy also said that he missed him. What was the truth?</p><p> </p><p>Brett curled up into a ball.</p><p> </p><p>The truth was, he missed Eddy too and it had only been two days. The truth was, he couldn’t treat this like a casual hookup, no matter how much he wanted to. The truth was, he really really really really liked Eddy Chen.</p><p> </p><p>So maybe it <em>was</em> time for him to figure things out, even if Eddy might say things that he didn’t want to hear and it all goes to shit. Maybe he would do it tomorrow.</p><p> </p><p>*          *          *</p><p> </p><p>He bounded for Eddy’s office directly after music history, ignoring his friends’ invites for lunch, Jordan’s <em>you don’t have to be in </em>such <em>a rush</em>, and the teasing laughter that followed. Whatever, he didn’t care.</p><p> </p><p>He was delayed slightly by a brief interlude. As he bolted across campus, he was stopped by the famous new professor. He was a little embarrassed, being out of breath and disheveled, but she didn’t seem to mind.</p><p> </p><p>“I was hoping we could find some time to talk to this week,” she said after they’d dispensed the usual greetings. “I didn’t intend to take any undergraduate students, but having heard your performance, I think we may be a good match. As I said, your performance was good and, more importantly, quite different. I’m not very traditional myself. I think may be able to help you achieve more.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett felt a small swell of pride. “Thank you. That means a lot. I already have a teacher, but I’d love to talk more and get your thoughts.”</p><p> </p><p>“You do? Oh, Professor Chen, you mean?” she asked, confused. “But I understand that he’s leaving next semester. That’s why I offered . . .”</p><p> </p><p>“Leaving?” His confusion exceeded hers. “What do you mean? Why would he—I haven’t heard anything like that—”</p><p> </p><p>The new professor didn’t have any answers, only that perhaps he should talk to Eddy.</p><p> </p><p>After that, he continued on his trek towards Eddy’s office, but a little slower now, with a faint sense of unease.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Eddy cracked a window open, letting in a blast of cold air. How much New York has changed, the warmth of September now a mere memory.</p><p> </p><p>It was the hour for lunch and Belle was lounging on his couch, nagging at him in the way that older sisters do.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m just saying, is it really worth losing your job over a little fling?”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy smiled but didn’t respond. This job wasn’t worth a fig to him. He knew Belle understood; they had always understood each other like that.</p><p> </p><p>“Besides, if you’d only been slightly more discreet, you wouldn’t be in this position.”</p><p> </p><p>“Was I very obvious?”</p><p> </p><p>“You gave him a giant hickey just before his performance, Eddy Chen. Do you think we’re all blind?”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah.”</p><p> </p><p>“It was uncomfortable.”</p><p> </p><p>“I see.”</p><p> </p><p>“I doubt that.” Belled rolled her eyes. “ Anyway, I’m not saying he isn’t a cute boy, but considering your track record, I didn’t think cute and innocent was your type.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy shrugged, unconcerned. “It isn’t, really.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then why?”</p><p> </p><p>“No particular reason. Or maybe,” he said, leaning languidly against the window and staring into the cloudless skies. “You know how it was. I couldn’t perform anymore, in the state I was in. Everything I played sounded bland and everything I heard bored me. Except him. He was so . . .”</p><p> </p><p>“Different?”</p><p> </p><p>“Spectacularly awful, was what I wanted to say. But interesting in that way. I thought he could be a distraction, at least until I could find my way back to the stage. Or at least a direction I wanted to go.”</p><p> </p><p>“So now that you’ve found your way back to the stage, you can end it.”</p><p> </p><p>Again, Eddy said nothing. The silence in the room was broken only by the sound of faint footsteps in the hallway, which soon receded to nothing.</p><p> </p><p>“Or are you now so smitten that you’re ready to give up everything you’ve ever worked for?”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy scoffed lightly. “I wouldn’t go that far.”</p><p> </p><p>Belle gave him a pointed look.</p><p> </p><p>“Well . . . fine. Something like that.”</p><p> </p><p>“Gross.” But she grinned as she said this.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Eddy couldn’t suppress a smile as he watched Brett waddle into his office later that afternoon, wrapped in his large sleeping bag of a coat. He didn’t think he was capable of missing someone over a weekend of absence, but there it was. He glided over, trying not to seem too eager, and tapped Brett lightly on the forehead with the pen he’d been twirling.</p><p> </p><p>“Mr. Yang, you abandoned me all weekend and now you’re late. I thought you were going to come around lunch.”</p><p> </p><p>“Got sidetracked,” Brett mumbled as he placed his violin down and slid off his jacket. He dodged Eddy’s hand, which had been reaching for his own.</p><p> </p><p>“By?” Eddy asked, his brows crinkling in displeasure.</p><p> </p><p>“I ran into Professor Blunt earlier,” he said slowly. “She said . . . that she’d be interested in teaching me in next semester?”</p><p> </p><p>“Professor Blunt?” The displeasure morphed into surprise. “She never takes undergrads. She really said that?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah . . . but I said—”</p><p> </p><p>“—But that’s great. That’s one in a million chance.” A relieved smile broke across Eddy’s face, and he reached over to ruffle Brett’s hair. “Here I was running around trying to find you a new instructor, and you were able to find one all on your own. Who knew?”</p><p> </p><p>“But what about you?”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy froze, noticing only then that Brett wasn’t smiling back. He was waiting for Eddy’s response with a deadpan stare that Eddy hadn’t seen for a long time, the kind of stare he gave him when they were still more or less strangers. The words caught in Eddy’s throat.</p><p> </p><p>“So you <em>are</em> leaving, then.”</p><p> </p><p>There came a long pause. But in the end, what could Eddy say, except, “Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>“Because of me?”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy shook his head. “I had always planned to leave. I just didn’t know when I’d be ready.”</p><p> </p><p>“And now you’re ready,” Brett whispered, staring down at his feet so that Eddy could only see a layer of dark lashes. But he couldn’t conceal the disappointment in his trembling voice, which pricked at Eddy’s heart. He pulled Brett onto the couch and wrapped his arms around him, ignoring his slight resistance.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll still be around,” he said softly. “I just won’t be on campus. Nothing else has to change.”</p><p> </p><p>He relaxed a bit as he felt Brett give in and nod hesitantly against his chest. They sat in silence for a few moments, Eddy stroking Brett’s back.</p><p> </p><p>In a lighter tone, he said, “I was going to ask you another time, but since you know, I might as well ask now, since I might be busy over the next few weeks. I’m giving a concert on Christmas eve, if you’re free to come watch?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett pulled back slightly from Eddy’s embrace and looked up with a small frown. “Christmas eve? But that’s so soon . . . ”</p><p> </p><p>“The soloist they originally booked can’t make it and I happened to be free.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” Brett replied dully, with a rising sense of resignation.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy tilted his face up and pressed a warm, slow kiss to the cold lips. He didn’t like the lost look in Brett’s eyes, or the way he leaned limply against Eddy.   But he didn’t know what else to say to make it better, so he just held him tighter.</p><p> </p><p>“You’ll come, won’t you?” he asked again.</p><p> </p><p>“ . . . Okay,” Brett whispered. At least now, he wouldn’t have to go through the trouble of figuring things out. A fitting end, he supposed.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Chapter 22</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>warning: a little bit NSFW somewhere in the middle (but you've already made it this far do you really care? XD)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On Tuesdays, Sophie studied with her friend Brett at the school café. In fact, with the end of the semester just around the corner, everyone was studying all the time, as long as they weren’t practicing. Just look—even Brett, who usually spent the afternoon scrolling through his phone, had a textbook propped open in front of him.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m surprised,” she remarked. “I didn’t know you owned any textbooks.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey now. I do study sometimes.” Brett gave her a smile that was so forced that it almost looked pained.</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to smile if you don’t want to.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett promptly dropped the pretense and let his shoulders droop again.</p><p> </p><p>“You are like this because Professor Chen is leaving?” Sophie prodded gently.</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve heard about it too?”</p><p> </p><p>“He had to tell his other students.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett frowned. “So I was the only one who didn’t know. . . .”</p><p> </p><p>Sophie glanced at him sympathetically. “Perhaps he had his considerations. I don’t think he was trying to keep in you in the dark for, I don’t know, mean reasons. Anyway, have you tried talking to him about it?”</p><p> </p><p>“I . . . can’t. Besides, what is there to talk about? I can’t stop him.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then, do you want to talk to me about it?”</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“I mean,” said Sophie with a smile. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll still be stuck here with you for the next three and a half years. And Sumina, and Jordan. They’re gossipy though, so I am probably a safer bet, if you did want to talk.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett blinked a few times, then smiled back slowly, a little more sincere this time. “Okay. I’ll let you know.”</p><p> </p><p>“Cool. By the way, your book is upside down.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett chuckled awkwardly, then groaned. “I’m going to fail, aren’t I?”</p><p> </p><p>“We both know the school won’t let that happen.”</p><p> </p><p>“I feel like that’s an insult.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Actually, even if he had wanted to, Brett didn’t get much of an opportunity to speak to Eddy after that. The end of the semester closed in on them like a black hole and swallowed all their free time. Eddy had to prep his other students for competition, had to finish writing his finals, had to find a new apartment, and had to practice for his concert. Every time Brett saw him, his wan face featured prominent dark circles.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you know that lack of sleep causes receding hairlines?” Brett quipped, once.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s genetics,” he replied sullenly, too tired to argue. “Although, if you want to help me sleep better, that’s fine too.” He rested his head against Brett’s shoulder and suggestively tightened his hold around the smaller boy’s waist. “You just need to—”</p><p> </p><p>Brett swatted his hand lightly and rolled his eyes. “You have too much to do. You don’t need me disturbing your rest.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy sighed with palpable depression. Having grown used to Brett’s presence in his bed, it now seemed insufferably cruel that he would deprived of him. But that was all right, there would be time enough in the future.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Brett was busy too, or tried to keep himself busy. He spent more time hanging out with Sophie and his other friends and even his mother. He’d also slowly begun to transition to his new professor, who was funny and kind and, in all honesty, a much better teacher than Eddy, who usually oscillated between yelling at him and (now) flirting with him (in an unnecessarily handsy way). Even in the few sessions he had with her, he’d begun to develop a better sense of his strengths and weaknesses, and where he wanted to go, musically.</p><p> </p><p>All of this kept him occupied enough. There were brief moments of down time when he would think about Eddy’s impending departure with a sense of gloom. And once, when his mother asked him what was going on with Professor Chen, he didn’t know what to say.</p><p> </p><p>But he was learning to cope.</p><p> </p><p>He’d only known Professor Chen for three months, and could very well resume life without him.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Still, he was happy when Eddy invited him to watch The Nutcracker on the last day of the semester.</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t even know he’d been stressed, but after he’d turned in his last exam and submitted his last paper, he felt a weight lifted from his shoulders. It was with a light bounce in his step that he ambled towards the Lincoln Center with Eddy at his side.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“It’s been so long since I’ve watched anything here,” he said, marveling at the Christmas lights strung across the awning. “Even though our school’s right next door.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is that why you’re all dressed up for me?” Eddy teased.</p><p> </p><p>“Not for you,” Brett muttered, embarrassed now for wearing his formal slacks.</p><p> </p><p>“But I like it.” Eddy placed his arm around Brett’s waist over his white, cashmere sweater. “It’s soft.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett blushed and told him to stop it, that people might see.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy chuckled. “It’s a little too late for that, don’t you think?”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>During the ballet, Eddy surprised him by nodding off. His head dropped slowly onto Brett’s shoulder and his face lost its usual guarded look. Somehow, even above the music, all Brett could hear were Eddy’s soft, even breaths by his ear. Their fingers were still intertwined, creating the illusion they wouldn’t be parting any time soon. An illusion only.</p><p> </p><p>Tchaikovsky receded to the background. He sat perfectly still in the darkness and tried to commit the moment to memory.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>They sat in front of the fountain after the show, watching the people mill around, as they had once before. It was beyond freezing, but neither of them made the move to leave. Eddy studied Brett silently from the side.</p><p> </p><p>“You can be so quiet sometimes. I wonder what you’re thinking.”</p><p> </p><p>“Nothing important,” said Brett, then frowned at the sense of déjà vu. Eddy must have felt it too, because he said, “You always say that.”</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe one day, you’ll tell me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe.”</p><p> </p><p>Finally, when the plaza had more or less emptied out, they stiffly rose from their seats, stretching their frozen joints.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll see you—” Brett paused as Eddy suddenly took his hand again. “Eddy?”</p><p> </p><p>“Do you . . . have to go?” There was a charming, childish reluctance in his voice. But then he smiled and shook his head. “Never mind. Get home safe.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett hesitated. “I don’t . . have to?”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Eddy was kissing him before the door even fully closed. Brett had wanted to say something, but there was no time for words as Eddy sealed his lips. They left a trail of clothing as they stumbled into bed.</p><p> </p><p>Brett still felt shy, but less shy than before. He pushed Eddy against the mattress and straddled him.</p><p> </p><p>“What do you think you’re doing?” Eddy asked, his eyes dark and unreadable as he stared up at Brett.</p><p> </p><p>“There’s something I wanted to try,” he said softly, then slowly lowered himself down onto Eddy.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett smirked playfully through the discomfort. Not so cute and innocent now, was he? “Do you—like that?” he asked, between his own light moans.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy’s only response was to thrust up harder, smiling in satisfaction when he elicited a tiny yelp from Brett.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Brett curled up against Eddy in the darkness and stared at the ceiling. Three days left, he thought with a small, sad sigh.</p><p> </p><p>*          *          *</p><p> </p><p>The day before Christmas was bright and cold. By the time Brett made his way to Carnegie Hall, there were just a few rays of sunlight left, coloring the stone façade with a warm sepia. Brett followed the crowds through the classic arches, eavesdropping on excited chatter about the return of the missing prodigy until the lights dimmed and the soloist made his entrance.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy walked onto the stage amidst polite applause. He looked sharp and elegant in his new concert attire, and he bowed with a cool grace. When the conductor raised the baton, Brett felt slightly nervous.</p><p> </p><p>Which he shouldn’t have, of course. He realized that as soon as Eddy brought down his bow, entering over the frosty, siren-like orchestra with Sibelius’s haunting, mysterious melody.</p><p> </p><p>Brett remembered suddenly that he’d once told Eddy his Sibelius concerto sounded robotic. How silly.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy played with lyrical warmth this evening, his technical mastery overshadowed only by the intense emotion behind his performance, by the notes of alluring poignancy that tumbled into explosive drama, lush and majestic. Brett watched and listened breathlessly, forgetting everything except the music.</p><p> </p><p>It was only after Eddy finished and the audience burst into applause that Brett found himself pulled back to the real world. A standing ovation, of course. He stood up with everyone else and clapped, his eyes never leaving Eddy.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy smiled and bowed, radiating with the quiet confidence of someone who’d just nailed his performance. The applause grew louder.</p><p> </p><p>And Brett knew then, that Eddy was exactly where he belonged.</p><p> </p><p>Brett shuffled quietly to the end his row and walked out of the concert hall.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Eddy looked up just in time to see Brett fade from view.</p><p> </p><p>“Shit,” he muttered. Can’t take your eyes off that boy for one second.</p><p> </p><p>The conductor was staring at him in consternation, but there was no time for that now. Eddy thrust his $20 million Strad into the hands of the bewildered old man and, ignoring the collective shock of the entire orchestra, ran off the stage.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“Brett Yang! Stop right there!”</p><p> </p><p>Brett halted in his tracks. He thought he was delusional for a second, until he spotted Eddy chasing after him.</p><p> </p><p>“Wh-what are you doing here?”</p><p> </p><p>“No time,” Eddy said, grasping his hand and pulling him towards the intersection. “People are going to come out looking for me soon.”</p><p> </p><p>“But where are we going?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They found themselves lost in the empty, winding pathways of Central Park, engulfed by darkness and silence. Just the two of them, fools whiling away the hours of Christmas Eve in the freezing cold.</p><p> </p><p>A little out of breath, Brett tugged on Eddy’s hand to motion for him to slow down. They came to a stop under a lamp, the pearlescent light from which perfectly illuminated the dried tearstains on Brett’s cheeks.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy cupped Brett’s face with his hands and frowned. “I thought I saw you crying.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, you didn’t. You were so far away.”</p><p> </p><p>“But I was only looking at you.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett shook Eddy’s hands away and wiped haphazardly at his face. “Why’d you run out anyway?”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t know?”</p><p> </p><p>“How would I know?”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy’s studied him with a self-deprecating smile. “Then I guess my performance was a failure.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know what you mean.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy stared away into the darkness as he considered his words. “For a long time, my mind used to be blank when I performed. Or, that’s not quite right. I thought about a lot of things—whether I was as good as I was previously, whether I would win the next competition, whether people liked my performance, found me impressive. I thought about those things more and more, until the thought of playing on stage made me sick. That’s why I stopped.</p><p> </p><p>“But I didn’t think about those things tonight.” He turned to Brett, looking a little helpless, a little defeated. “I wanted to play for you, and I thought about you. That was all.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett’s heartbeat quickened. Eddy seemed so sincere, after all.</p><p> </p><p>“Stop that,” he whispered, his stilted breath turning to vapor in the cold, night air. “Stop saying these things, as if—as if you cared about me. When you and I both know it isn’t true.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy’s brows furrowed in confusion. It was his turn to ask, “What do you mean?”</p><p> </p><p>“You know. Th-that I’m spectacularly bad at the violin and that’s the only reason I’m interesting,” Brett recited, tears tumbling down his cheeks once more, and which he couldn’t seem to wipe away quickly enough. “And that I’m just a distraction until your find a way back onto the stage.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh fucking hell,” Eddy muttered with a soft laugh. “Of course you’d overhear that.” He reached for Brett’s face again and gently wiped his tears with his thumb.</p><p> </p><p>“It is what you said, isn’t it?” Brett asked, trying to squirm away but not succeeding. “And now you’re back on the stage—congratulations—you don’t need me anymore. And none of this ever meant anything to you. And that’s <em>fine. </em>I don’t care. I don’t need you either, and I—”</p><p> </p><p>“I love you.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett froze and stared up at Eddy in disbelief.</p><p> </p><p>“What did you say?”</p><p> </p><p>“I love you,” Eddy repeated.</p><p> </p><p>“ . . .No. You couldn’t possibly,” Brett stammered. “Then why did you say. . .”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy gazed at Brett with affectionate exasperation. “Because you <em>were</em> spectacularly bad at the violin, and you <em>were</em> a distraction, mostly because you were a pain in the ass and caused me nothing but trouble ever since we met.</p><p> </p><p>“Which is why I must be crazy. Because I do care, and I do need you, and I love you.”</p><p> </p><p>A thousand doubts raced through Brett’s mind, a thousand reasons to disbelieve Eddy. What <em>was</em> love, even? And why would anyone—why would someone like Eddy—love him, when he was so painfully ordinary?</p><p> </p><p>But he couldn’t stop himself from asking, in a very tiny voice “. . . Really?”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy heard the uncertainty in his voice. What a skittish little kitten he’s found for himself, he thought. He pulled Brett closer and, before he could escape, kissed him slowly, softly, tasting the salt on his lips, until he felt the boy relax slightly in his arms.</p><p> </p><p>“Really,” he said. “So will you take me back?”</p><p> </p><p>“Take you back?” Brett repeated dumbly. “I—”</p><p> </p><p>“Because I don’t have anywhere to go, and you did say you’d take care of me.” He peered pitifully at Brett. “I can’t teach anymore, as you know, and after that stunt I just pulled, I don’t think any orchestras will be signing me up any time soon.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett blinked at him. “But everyone said you were leaving to go on tour . . .”</p><p> </p><p>“Everyone was wrong. This was the only concert. And I was only playing it for you, really. I had envisioned it as a sort of Christmas gift to you, but I suppose it wasn’t to your liking . . .”</p><p> </p><p>“No! I did like it! I just—I didn’t know . . . wait, so you <em>are</em> staying?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’d like to, if you’d let me.”</p><p> </p><p>The tears had finally stopped falling and a shy, trembling smile spread across Brett’s face. “Well, I guess, if you really haven’t got anywhere to go, you’d better stay with me . . .”</p><p> </p><p>“Really?” Eddy asked, returning his smile.</p><p> </p><p>“Really.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Christmas day had just begun to peek through the blinds. They were laying in Eddy’s warm bed again, Eddy still asleep and Brett scrolling absently through the headlines on his phone.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Carnegie Hall in Chaos: Famous Australia violinist disappears after explosive performance of Sibelius. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>He zoomed in on the snapshot of Eddy running from the stage, his coattails flapping behind him like cockroach wings, and snickered quietly to himself. What an idiot.</p><p> </p><p>But his idiot.</p><p>He rolled closer and, with a furtive glance to make sure Eddy was still asleep, whispered, “I love you too, Eddy.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And they lived happily ever after.  To everyone who thought this might end in tragedy, you overestimate my writing abilities.  I'm incapable of writing anything except the cheesiest Hollywood endings.</p><p>Special thanks to my translator @TDdomo! Thank you so much for the time and effort. Your translations were amazing, and reading them actually helped me get a better sense of what I wrote and formulate next chapters, so I couldn't finished this without you!</p><p>And thank you so much to everyone who read this! I hope it provided you with some entertainment in what proved to be a not very fun year.  Stay healthy!</p><p> </p><p>(This is so funny but I just watched their new video and I realized I couldn't write any of this after today, so good thing I finished last night lmao.)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Side Story 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Some mindless fluff for @incojnito -- thanks for the prompt hehehe &lt;3 &lt;3 &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On a mild Friday evening in the beginning of March, a group of Juilliard students, armed with fake IDs, made their way down to East Village to celebrate the nineteenth birthday of one Brett Yang. The plan was to infiltrate a new bar that had opened up next to the Japanese restaurant with weird bondage art and get the birthday boy drunk off his ass.</p><p> </p><p>The group was in high spirits. The night air was still cold, but not biting, and the trees that lined the street flashed a bud here and there. As always, St. Mark’s teemed with a hodgepodge of young, colorful, and not-very-sober people. It promised to be a fun night.</p><p> </p><p>Except:</p><p> </p><p>“Why’d you bring him?” Jordan whispered.</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t mean to,” Brett whispered back with a shrug. “But I couldn’t stop him, since he’s my . . .”</p><p> </p><p>“. . . Your?”</p><p> </p><p>“Anyway, it’ll be fine.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, but it <em>won’t</em>. It’s no fun if he’s watching over us—”</p><p> </p><p>“Jordan, you know I can hear you, right?” Eddy remarked nonchalantly over Brett’s head.</p><p> </p><p>A shiver ran down Jordan’s spine. “Sorry, Professor Chen.”</p><p> </p><p>“Also, I’m not your professor anymore. You can call my Eddy.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh. Right. Right, then.” A cold sweat formed as Jordan tried to force the words out. “E—Ed—no. You know what, I’ll, uh, just stick with Professor Chen. If that’s okay with you. Thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy rolled his eyes while Brett snickered.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>After that though, Brett didn’t have much to laugh about. Jordan was right; it was no fun at all having Eddy watch over him.</p><p> </p><p>“And what will you be having?” Everyone else had finished ordering, and the cute waiter finally turned his smile to Brett. Eddy squinted at the guy suspiciously and casually draped an arm over the birthday boy.</p><p> </p><p>Brett remained oblivious. He finished perusing the menu and said brightly, “I’ll have the yuzu soju—”</p><p> </p><p>“Coke. He’ll have a glass of coke.”</p><p> </p><p>“Pardon?” “What?”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy looked coolly at Brett. “You’re right, soda’s not very good for you either. Perhaps you’d prefer pure seltzer?”</p><p> </p><p>“. . . Coke’s . . .fine,” Brett said through gritted teeth, trying his best to ignore the amused glances from the rest of the table.</p><p> </p><p>“But Professor Chen,” Sumina remarked curiously after the waiter left in bewilderment, “you never used to stop Brett from drinking.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy shrugged. “He never used to be my boyfriend. And now he is.”</p><p> </p><p>The table burst into <em>oohs </em>and <em>ahhs</em>. Brett blushed furiously and punched Eddy in the leg under the table. It was a light punch though, which ended with Eddy wrapping his large hand around Brett’s small fist and giving a gentle squeeze.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Eddy himself sipped elegantly at a glass of old fashioned while Brett glared weakly at him over the coke. It was <em>his birthday</em>, dammit, Brett thought indignantly, Eddy had <em>no right</em>.</p><p> </p><p>After awhile, the glares got to be a bit too penetrating, and Eddy capitulated by sliding his drink over. “You can try some. Just a little.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett glanced at him in surprise. A happy grin then blossomed over his face, indignation forgotten. Against Eddy’s counsel, he took a large, greedy gulp.</p><p> </p><p>Which resulted in a coughing fit as the whisky burned all the way down.</p><p> </p><p>He peered up at Eddy pitifully with tear-filled eyes. Eddy chuckled. “I told you,” he admonished softly, then leaned forward and kissed Brett on his scrunched-up nose.</p><p> </p><p>From across the table, Sumina mouthed <em>aww</em>.  Sophie cringed.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The worst of the night though, was when Shaun ordered shots for <em>never have I ever</em>. Just as Brett reveled in the fact that he had successfully dodged the first few rounds, Ollie turned to him with a suspicious smirk and said, “Never have I ever fucked my professor.”</p><p> </p><p>Everyone’s attention snapped towards Brett, who, already red from the whisky, now turned redder. He looked towards Eddy for help, but Eddy smiled innocently and said nothing.</p><p> </p><p>“Professor Chen, you can’t get him out of this,” Ollie said solemnly. “Unless you do his shot for him.”</p><p> </p><p>“But why?” asked Eddy. “I certainly didn’t fuck my professor. It was my student that I—”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Stop</em>,” Brett interrupted frantically.</p><p> </p><p>This set everyone off again. With a helpless but resigned sigh, Brett downed his shot.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>At some point, when Eddy went to use the restroom, Brett slinked over to Sophie and eyed her drink pointedly. Pitying him, she let him have it.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s so annoying sometimes,” Brett complained with a huff. “Never lets me do what I want.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know about that. You seem pretty happy to me.” Sophie retorted.</p><p> </p><p>“Hmph.” Brett gave her a sullen look, to which Sophie responded with a sly, knowing smile that Brett didn’t like at all.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Finally, after Brett made a silent wish and blew out the candles, the waiter brought over fancy flutes of French 75. Before Eddy could get a word in, Brett hugged him around the waist and glanced at him with shiny eyes and a small pout. “I’m going to drink one. It’s my birthday. You can’t stop me.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy’s gaze grew soft. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said with rare indulgence.</p><p> </p><p>Brett’s pout disappeared in a flash and he beamed at the group as he raised his glass of bubbly. Sophie fought the urge to roll her eyes.</p><p> </p><p><em>Really, </em>she thought, <em>As if Chen would ever stop you from getting what you wanted. As if you didn't have him wrapped around your little finger!</em></p><p> </p><p>She made a mental note to decline going out with the two of them ever again. They were really too much for the single soul.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>By the time they made out of the bar, and despite Eddy’s best efforts to prevent this, Brett was wobbly on his feet and had to hang onto Eddy to steady himself.</p><p> </p><p>“Now would be a good time to get a car.”</p><p> </p><p>“But I want to walk with you,” Brett mumbled. “It’s nice out.”</p><p> </p><p>It <em>was</em> nice out, for the first time in weeks, and Eddy’s new apartment was only twenty minutes away, and, of course, Eddy didn’t really mind the way Brett clutched at his hand for support.</p><p> </p><p>“Fine, then. But no whining later.”</p><p> </p><p>Which, of course, didn’t happen. They made it as far as the entrance of Washington Square Park before Brett stopped and declared, “I’m tired. Let’s get a car.”</p><p> </p><p>“ . . . We’re five minutes away. No car’s going to take us . . .”</p><p> </p><p>Brett’s lower lip quivered and he stared at Eddy plaintively. “But I’m <em>tired</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy sighed. In retrospect, what was he thinking when he decided on this one? But it was too late, and it <em>was</em> Brett’s birthday. He knelt down in front of the boy and said, “Get on.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett blinked in confusion, hardly expecting this. “Wait, really?” he asked, now a bit embarrassed.</p><p> </p><p>“Unless you’d like to walk after all?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Despite the late hour, the park was still filled with people, especially young college couples enjoying the first breath of spring. The fountain before the famous arch gurgled happily, reflecting the white from the sliver of the moon in the cloudless sky. No one paid any attention to the two musicians threading through their way through the grounds.</p><p> </p><p>Brett rested his chin on Eddy’s shoulder, his heart beating fast.</p><p> </p><p>He had actually just wanted to avoid the park altogether. Somehow, after all these years, it still managed to conjure memories that he’d rather forget. As they approached, he was reminded of the insincere birthday card he’d received from his father that morning, which contained only stock greetings and some cash that he didn’t particularly need, and he suddenly lost the will to press forward.</p><p> </p><p>Now though, with his chest pressed against Eddy’s back and his ears just able to catch the rhythm of Eddy’s heart, he found that the park wasn’t so awful after all.</p><p> </p><p>It a little bit nice, even.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t like it when you become this quiet,” Eddy said suddenly. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett laughed. “I was thinking how nice this was, actually. And the birthday party. It was fun.”</p><p> </p><p>“You liked it? That’s good. Although I was thinking, next year, we should go for something fancier, just for the two of us . . . ”</p><p> </p><p>“Next year, huh . . .”</p><p> </p><p>Brett poked his head forward and gave Eddy a kiss on the cheek.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy half turned in surprise. “What was that for?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett buried his face against the crook of Eddy’s neck and gave a muffled, “Just cuz.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy smiled softly and trekked on.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>(“Eddy Chen, are you . . . groping my butt right now?”</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe. Service fee. For having to carry you.”)</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Side Story 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eddy Chen had taken a cozy apartment on the quaint and cobbled-stoned Sullivan Street, at one end of which stood Blue Ribbon Sushi. It was there that he enjoyed a belated birthday dinner with Brett and Brett's mother towards the end of March. The whole thing was going just fine until Brett left to use the restroom, at which time, his mother turned a discerning eye upon Eddy.</p><p> </p><p>“I see you haven’t performed since December,” she remarked dispassionately, cutting straight to the point.</p><p> </p><p>“Er. No, I haven’t, as a matter of fact.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve just been staying home, I gather?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well. I do this and that. . . . But, I—yes—I mostly stay home.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hmm.” Was it just him, or was there a hint of disapproval there? “Yes, I suppose your generation is different from mine. More stagnant, I would say. More content to let life run its course. Which is fine. It’s just that, I had always envisioned Brett with someone more . . . active? Ambitious? But I’m just old fashioned. Out of touch. What do I know?”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy almost never felt nervous in his life, but he began to feel a bit nervous now.</p><p> </p><p>“I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t say <em>stagnant</em>,” he interjected feebly. “I’ve been trying to compose music, actually, like Mozart. So I do a lot of that. At home.”</p><p> </p><p>“Like Mozart, you say? And how’s that going?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s . . . going.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Hmm.</em>” She squinted at him from across the table. “I hear, from people who know these things, that orchestras have been vying to book you.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not sure that’s true—you know, after running out last time, I think that—”</p><p> </p><p>“I think that’s improved your market value dramatically. The music world enjoys <em>mystery</em> and <em>drama</em>, for reasons that are unclear to me, and they’re downright salivating for the violin prodigy who ‘ran after true love,’ or whatever bullshit they write in the papers these days. Ted told me the London Philharmonic invited you for end of next month, isn’t that right?”</p><p> </p><p>“They may have,” Eddy mumbled.</p><p> </p><p>“And I understand that you will accept?”</p><p> </p><p>At which point, Brett returned. He slid into the seat next to Eddy with an innocent smile. “I’m back! What have you two been talking about?”</p><p> </p><p>“What have we been talking about, Eddy?”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy swallowed. “That . . . that I will be performing with the London Philharmonic next month.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett turned to Eddy with a look of surprise, and joy. “Really? You never told me! So this means you’re no longer blacklisted? That’s great!”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. So very great.”</p><p> </p><p>Grace gave Eddy an amused, triumphant smile, and Eddy understood then how she had become so successful.  Alas, he was no match for her yet. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>After Grace left them in her fancy black car, they loitered outside the dry-cleaning shop next to the restaurant so that Brett could play with the owner’s new golden retriever. Eddy watched boy and dog frolic in the spring night with a forlorn look on his face.</p><p> </p><p>In fact, it’s not that he didn’t <em>want </em>to perform. And he certainly <em>was </em>ambitious, or he wouldn’t have made it as far as he’s made it today.</p><p> </p><p>But could a person really leave home in good conscience when he knew that, every evening, he could expect a Brett Yang to come knocking on the door? And could a person really settle for a lonely week in bland hotel in London, when he could instead be eating a nice dinner with Brett, or sitting next to Brett as he struggled with homework and begged for help with that cute little whine in his voice, or adjusting Brett’s position on the violin while stealthily hugging him from behind, or dimming the lights after and coaxing Brett into bed?</p><p> </p><p>Maybe some other person, with a soul of steel. But not Eddy, that’s for sure.</p><p> </p><p>Brett gave a small squeal of happiness as the puppy licked him on the face. “Cooper, stop that!” But he hugged Cooper as he said this and gave it a few kisses on its golden, furry forehead before he finally turned his attention back to Eddy.</p><p> </p><p>“Eddy? What’s wrong? You look upset?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nothing,” said Eddy, suppressing a sigh. He sidled over to Brett and took his hand. “Come on, let’s go home.”</p><p> </p><p>As they walked away, Eddy turned back to throw one last mournful stare at the dog.</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t even know how lucky you are,” he thought.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Eddy Chen left for London at the end of April after all. Brett, who had an important recital that week, couldn’t join him, and waved him goodbye with considerably less sorrow and anguish than Eddy would have liked to see. (In fact, to Eddy’s immense, secret displeasure, Brett had smiled and said <em>see you next week</em>, as if it were no big deal.)</p><p> </p><p>London was sunnier than usual in honor of spring. The Savoy was nice as far as hotels went. The orchestra was top notch, the conductor was excellent, and everyone bent over backwards to make Eddy feel at home.</p><p> </p><p>But what did it matter? His heart was in New York.</p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>On the morning before the opening performance, Eddy rose early and went for a run around St. James’ Park, fended off a few fat and aggressive swans, picked up some coffee, and strolled leisurely back to his room. The doorman greeted him politely, the concierge smiled cheerfully, and the hallways of the kooky old hotel were calm and quiet.</p><p> </p><p>Which is to say, nothing prepared him for Brett Yang popping out of his bathroom in nothing more than a fluffy white robe and yelling, “Surprise!”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy froze and stared. His slow, “How did you . . . ?” drew a delighted laugh from Brett.</p><p> </p><p>“I bet you weren’t expecting this! Took the red-eye after the recital. I wasn’t going to come, but then I thought, what if you can’t perform anymore if I’m not here? It’d be awful if you went on stage and turned back into a boring robot just because you missed me. So, here I am!”</p><p> </p><p>A corner of Eddy’s lips lifted imperceptibly. “Ah, is that so? And how did you get in?”</p><p> </p><p>“Mom pulled a few strings. It’s not that hard. Anyway, I was trying to shower and get ready so that we can go sightseeing! You got back earlier than I thought, but I just need to put on some clothes. Where do you think we should go? I was thinking we can start with—Eddy?”</p><p> </p><p>Brett belatedly discovered that, somehow, Eddy had silently glided very close and was gazing down at him with the kind of look that made the blood rush to his cheeks. He took a faltering step back and held out a hand to keep the taller man at a safe distance. It struck him that he should perhaps not have come out in a robe.</p><p> </p><p>“E-Eddy, wh-what—where--um?”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy grasped the small, outstretched hand and brought it to his lips. “Oh, I don’t know,” he mused in a low voice as he pressed soft kisses against the delicate fingers. “I haven’t seen you for days, and now you’ve magically appeared, so maybe, first . . .”</p><p> </p><p>“But I want see London,” Brett protested quietly with a tiny pout.</p><p> </p><p>“We’ll have time for that later.” And before Brett could reply anything else, Eddy leaned down and licked Brett’s parted lips with a gentle swipe of his tongue.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Eddy</em>.” Brett’s face turned a brighter red, if that was possible.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy smirked. “What? You like it when Cooper does it.”</p><p> </p><p>“But Cooper’s a puppy . . .”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you saying he’s cuter than me?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, but . . .”</p><p> </p><p>It took Brett awhile to realize that, while they were debating this, Eddy had already deftly unraveled his robe. Of course, by then, it was too late for Brett to do anything about it other than to wrap his arms around Eddy and give in to Eddy’s relentless kisses.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Needless to say, no sightseeing took place that day.</p><p> </p><p>*          *          *</p><p> </p><p>Eddy’s performance that night quelled any remaining doubt among critics. He proved once more that he’d outgrown the theatrics of a child prodigy and could achieve more than mere technical excellence. In short, he had not, as Brett feared, turned back into the robot.</p><p> </p><p>To the contrary, a few observant viewers among the audience noticed that the solemn violinist cracked a rare smile halfway through the concerto, and his second movement was colored by a gentle warmth that seeped through every note.</p><p> </p><p>As to why he smiled, no one knew.  Certainly, no one could have guessed that it was because he happened to see that his little boyfriend had curled up in his seat and fallen fast asleep.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The concerto concluded triumphantly and without hitch, but the conductor suddenly found himself on pins and needles. He darted a worried look at the soloist. Sure, the guy had seemed normal enough during rehearsals, but you never know these days. What if he decided to run out again? The conductor steeled himself for chaos.</p><p> </p><p>Thankfully, nothing happened. Eddy Chen bowed, left the stage, and came back for a series of encores. The only unplanned event that occurred was that he switched out one of the Paganini Caprices of Elgar’s <em>Salut D’Amour</em>, which caused a slight stir among the female members of the audience but, in the grand of scheme of things, wasn’t too big a deal.</p><p> </p><p>Afterwards, Eddy stuck around politely to pose for few pictures and to chat with well-wishers in the foyer. The conductor noticed, however, that he periodically glanced towards a corner of the room, where there stood a younger Asian boy who peered their way with a shy self-consciousness.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you know him?” the conductor finally asked, unable to resist.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. My boyfriend,” Eddy replied with an enigmatic smile. “And I apologize, but I’m afraid I have to leave now. I can’t keep him waiting.”</p><p> </p><p>“O-oh,” the conductor stuttered. “Yes, of course, by all means . . .”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy was already walking away, seemingly uninterested in anything except the boy. The boy said something that made the stoic Eddy Chen smile, and the two walk out together, side by side. The conductor gazed after them wistfully. Young love, he thought. What would music be without it?</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>To end the evening, Eddy led Brett to the London Eye, for which he had bought tickets as an apology for effectively ruining Brett’s sightseeing plans. Brett wasn't too excited; he complained that ferris wheels were cheesy and overrated and how could London's night scene compare to New York's?  But now that they had reached the top, Brett seemed happy enough to press his face against the glass and stare at the lights bouncing off the Thames.</p><p> </p><p>“See?” Eddy said lazily. “I told you it’d be nice.”</p><p> </p><p>Brett turned to him with a swift glare. “I haven’t forgiven you.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddy shrugged and changed the subject. “And how’d you like the concert?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh. It was . . . great.”</p><p> </p><p>“Was it? And you heard all of it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course! I was right there.”</p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t, for example, fall asleep?”</p><p> </p><p>“No! I would <em>never</em> . . .” Brett’s voice trailed off guiltily. “Well, maybe for a little. Just a little.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right. And what did I play for the encore?”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh . . . “</p><p> </p><p>Brett scooted closer to Eddy, laid his head on Eddy’s shoulder, and stared into Eddy’s eyes with the utmost innocence.</p><p> </p><p>Eddy let out a small chuckle and pressed a kiss lightly to the top of Brett’s head.</p><p> </p><p>“So we’re even?”</p><p> </p><p>“Fine,” Brett conceded reluctantly with a small laugh of his own. “We’re even.”</p><p> </p><p>Besides, Brett thought with a content yawn, they could sightsee tomorrow. Or the next time they came to London. They had all the time in the world.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I wasn't planning on writing this yet, but Brett's been so cute lately, even in their new camo atrocity (how??), that I had to write fluff *_* Teehee</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>